Quiddity

Quiddity: it's my new favorite word.

{ quid-di-ty: (noun) whatever makes something the type that it is: essence }

The Quiddity of Life

Coffee shop voices: the hum of the espresso machine, the chime of coffee mugs, murmers of conversations- drown out the sound of my typing. Cracks climb the creamy wall and my mind climbs out the window into the sunshine and lull of Berkeley in the early afternoon. Thoughts leave my fingers and find completion within a word, a sentence, a paragraph.

Leaving the House:

"Are you ready yet?" keys rattle at my door, an expectant face behind them.

"It's not 1:15," I reply under an avalanche of shoes.

"No, really, it's time to go!" Urgency

"No, really, it's not!" Found the shoes.

"I'm in the ca-aaar." door slams as he drags out his words. He likes to be early.

7:55 AM: Quiet. Gray sky, gray cement. Hushed and sleepy faces. Gray carpet, gray desk. Soft thumps of textbooks on desks. Coffee mugs raised as pillars on each desktop. Voices barely raised. People barely awake.

By the Kitchen Counter: It's one of my favorite places- leaning against the cool edge, my body eased awake by the ice of the tile floor and the steam curling from the battered Little Mermaid mug in my hands. Standing by it, confirming my belief that folding melted chocolate into pretty much anything is one of the most wonderful things in the world. Wiping it down, clean and silky once the remnants of 3 sleepytime teas are gone.

Maps:

"It's easy. I looked at the map," Malcolm looks at me, waiting for a response.

"That's nice."

"Ok, so," his hand waves aimlessly out the window, sunglasses cover his eyes as he coolly explains a massive web of directions. "Didn't you look at the map- see, the roads converge like this, see" he bumps my arm and makes a weird fish-like shape with his hands. No. I don't see.

"No, I didn't look at the map." I hate maps.

"How did you not look at a map? Didn't you get directions? How did you get the directions??" To describe his tone as shocked is an understatement. Apparently, looking at maps is as normal an activity for him as, say, eating.

"I got them from google maps. Like I always do."

"Right, you looked at a map!"

"No. I looked at the written directions next to the map." I win. Or not. He sighed loudly, I'm sure ashamed at my ineptness when it came to maps.

Books: Stacks and stacks and stacks. On the bed, under the bed, by the bed. Textbooks dishelved across two shelves. Everything else arranged by color. Pages wrinkly from water- summers spent by the pool and the ocean; fairytale after fairytale bound with childhood magic; battered second-hand Shakespeare, smudged with late Friday night scribbles and chocolate; black mysteries tinged on the edges from coffee- they couldn't be put down, no matter how late. So many stories helping to make mine.

Night: Microwave beeps. The milk is foaming and bubbly. "What did he say?" I shout from the kitchen, peering through to the tv. 4 of us occupying 2 couches along with pillows and blankets and cats. "Did they really just do that? Really?"

"SHHHH." Dad doesn't like commentary. Clattering: Malcolm finds the ice cream. "SHHHH" from the rest of us. Somehow he has managed to reach the decibel of "elephant herd" while getting his dessert. He's gifted. 10:00 pm. Dad pronounces it midnight. Some retreat to sleep. Me? Balanced book and mug and cat on my lap. Only 100 more pages. Empty mug now on the window sill, Big Dipper twinkling behind it. The silence of sleep. Glow of lamplight. Page turns. Outside reaches a hazy color only achieved at 11. Goodnight.

{ quid-di-ty: (noun) whatever makes something the type that it is: essence }