Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…


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Pauline joined us our sophomore year in college. She was the only “single” on this floor of double rooms, which already made her special. But then she lofted her bed, along with my impression of her.

With her bed raised high, there was room for two chairs. Room for conversation. Not lying on your bed conversation, like teenagers, but seated, postured conversations. It felt so grown-up, sitting in chairs, face to face. She even had a plant. She wasn’t waiting for life to begin. And I wanted to join her.

We talked about poems and books. Boys and mothers. Dances and classmates. We talked about the future like it had already begun. We talked about dreams in the same way. We sat in that space when my grandpa died. She helped me cry. We sat in that space when she broke up with her longtime boyfriend. (I suppose everything seems long term at 19.) I helped her cry. I suppose once you’ve seen someone cry, the laughter comes so easily. (Both states of vulnerability.) And oh how we laughed! I can still see her back teeth!

In the spring, she unscrewed the posts holding up her bed. Put the plant in the back seat of her car. And she was gone. She transferred to a new school. Maybe it was only a handful of months, but Pauline taught me about friendship. About the perfection of the time that is given. Nothing wasted.

I mention it now, because it seems so present. I know it’s Sunday, but it feels like a Friday afternoon. A Friday, sitting in Pauline’s room, waiting for my ride to come and take me home. Wearing my pink sweater vest and white pants. “You look nice,” she said. I smiled. “You dressed up to see your mom.” I shook my head yes.

Today, this Sunday, this mother’s day, this mother’s day that feels like a Friday afternoon — a Friday afternoon when I’m still almost a girl, wanting to please my mother. Wanting to tell her about my school, my week, my friend — because nothing felt as real as when I told her. I sit under the comfort of lofted memories. I laugh. And I cry. I sit in the perfection of the time that was given. Knowing nothing was wasted. Not time. Not emotion. Knowing I had such a friend. I had such a mother!

Life begins and begins. I’m not waiting.

Author: jodihills

I am an author and an artist, originally from the US, now living, loving and creating in the south of France. I show my fine art throught the US and Europe, and sell my books, art and images throughout the world.

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