girl magic

It's an uncharacteristically sweaty day in October. Haley and I drive up to the town of Sleepy Hollow from Queens with no AC but plenty of giggles, musing about ghosts and legends as one does on the way to Sleepy Hollow at Halloween time. But there's certainly no chill in the air today. The sun is beating down hard when we arrive at the cemetery. Haley forgot her sunglasses and won’t stop complaining about the heat on her face. It’s sweet, the way she obsesses over things she just can’t believe, when I can very much believe them.

The cemetery is hilly and green, but the kind of green that's a little bit yellow. The Hudson Valley is vibrant in the distance, and its breathtaking colors are worth the hike. Birds are whistling, frogs are croaking in the trees, and people are chattering. I've got my new (used) Pentax film camera with me and I'm eager to test it out. It’s my first film camera and I’m a little self-conscious, picking up this hobby at 28. Adding to the anxiety, it feels touristy here, old men with brochures, families with double strollers, kids screaming a bit too loud. But we are tourists here and unafraid to be so. I’m never afraid when I’m with Haley.

After a fair bit of wandering and climbing around graves, we are at the top of the hill. Sweaty, but there's a cool fall breeze, the kind you might daydream about when you're stuck in class and the bell's about to ring. We've found a resting spot. Like animals to drink, we are all huddled in the shade of the maple. It's too hot for ghosts, so we settle for the mundane magic of people-watching.

Now, a scene appears to me like an apparition: three teenage girls resting against the tree, sprawled out on top of each other. They are lounging as if they have all the time in the world, waiting for something to happen or for the wind to whisk them away. I am so drawn to them because we are them.

I see myself and Haley in the linoleum back hallways of our middle school, the music wing. We're sitting on the cold, hard floor that I once almost cracked my head open on, waiting for our turn to rehearse whatever dance we learned for whatever scene we were in for whatever edited-down musical we were performing at our sheltered, suburban high school. I see our first kiss at the cast party, our first “this is a bad idea” discussion, the ease with which we dismissed it all, closer than ever.

One of the girls has pink streaks in her hair. She's lying across the other two, suggesting that she's the "crazy" one. Her face is inches away from her friend's, or is it her lover's? And then there's the third wheel, who I'm sure is not a third wheel at all. She's their rock, the one who's wise beyond her years. I think about how one of their moms probably drove them in her minivan to languish at the cemetery, because she also languished at cemeteries in her youth. Just like we languished in all sorts of boring, yellow-grass suburban settings.

I see each of the girls on a romantic journey of their own. Feelings for boring boys, for hot girls, for teachers, for each other. For some reason, I’m certain that the three of them will be friends forever. I’m wise now, I can see them so clearly. I can see that thing that wraps around them and keeps them tight, the thick thread that contains all the nuances of girlhood. It connects them to each other, me to them, Haley to me. It’s love, lust, understanding, projection, attraction, anger, rage, boredom. It’s everything.

I'm staring, I'm taking too long, so I snap a photo and hope it comes out. For once I'm not self-conscious about my new hobby. I'm connected to the younger version of me who isn't ashamed to be a novice, the one Haley looked up to just as I looked up to her. I remember Haley using the dark room in high school. I remember admiring her talent, her passion, having no foresight but knowing that one day we'd both be even more ourselves - and here we are. In such a short moment, those three girls have made me feel so lucky. I feel a swirling energy between us, the girls, the trees, the birds, the dirt, and the dead. It’s proof of something universal and everlasting and maybe a bit “woo-woo” but quite real to me now.

I think sometimes we search too hard for meaning. How can one expect to connect to something spiritual in a 400-year-old plot of dirt? I don't think 11:11 is a special time, or that the numbers on my Chinese fortune are special. But I believe in the magic of a moment, the serendipity of perfect timing, the beauty of a scene.

It really feels transcendent, here at the top of the cemetery hill. Breathe in, fall air, breathe out, girl magic.