I Want The Ocean To Spill Over My Feet Like A Bottle Of Burst Champagne

Khánh Hmoong
Khánh Hmoong

“We’re all going to grow up someday. We might as well know what we want.”

The days go faster as you get older. When you’re little, a day feels so long and a week, even longer. But as you age, the days slip into twilight and dark and you barely even notice an hour has gone by. I fall onto couches with feet hurting and my lower back screaming protest at eight hours pacing concrete floors, veins beginning to form spidery legs across my skin. And I look out the window or down at my phone and I wish for a limitless number of genie-granted wishes.

“You usually can’t always get what you want,” my coworker said to me today, locking his big blue eyes to mine. And I smiled and I said, “Yes, yes you can.” But he’s got ten years on me, so what do I know?

All I know is I’ve always been a girl with a laundry list of wants. I keep a record of them.

I want to wake up and hear the birds singing country songs outside my window. I want windows that open into lilacs and apple trees and city streets and quiet country roads.

I want red wine every day and buckets of sangria and mojitos that taste like summer and whiskey that tastes like the cold. I want machines to spin cotton candy as pink and dreamy as clouds at sunset. I want the golden hour of early evening and the timid light of early, early dawn. When I was younger, we’d stay up all night and shoot off fireworks at four in the morning to celebrate the morning. I always want fireworks.

I want the ocean to spill over my feet like a bottle of burst champagne. I want sparkles, I want Marilyns and Dean Martins. I want the boat on the water and the car on the gravel. I want the radio on, low. I want Merle and Patsy Cline and Johnny and June and Stevie Nicks and Joni Mitchell and Leonard Cohen. I want the dusty light of harvest on the farm when the wheat fields get stripped of their golden glory and the air smells like hay. I want the rush and the motion of the city, the perfume of wet concrete and a thousand shampooed heads. I want to watch loons swim patterns across the lake.

I want cowboy boots and spike heels and no shoes at all, to drive barefoot with my red-painted toes pressed hard against the gas pedal, the left foot drumming time. I want a new dress for every day, and once I’ve worn them I want to give them away to a good home.

I want a great big love that knocks me over, one that sounds like steel guitars and crickets at night when it gets quiet, but it never gets boring. I know that I’ll meet this great big love someday soon – I’ll rear-end his car or something and he’ll get out to cuss me out and then bam, three weeks later we will be married in Las Vegas on a Wednesday afternoon and I won’t be wearing shoes. Or maybe I’ve already met that great big love. I’m open to interpretation.

I want the lights to dim. I want the sparks.

I want a farmhouse that creaks and sings with age and I want to fill it up with babies and big dogs named Waylon and books and flowers. I want those babies to run around barefoot in the yard and climb trees and scream their heads off. I want them to have everything they want, to look at the world with big wondrous eyes. I want their lives to sound like pancakes frying and fiddles humming and my big crazy family tumbling around them like so many cheerful birds.

I want massive storms that light up the sky and big, humid summer nights where everyone glistens with sweat and feels revved up with sex and pure heat. I want blizzards that dump gallons of snow everywhere. I want the mountains and the canyons, the palm trees and the evergreens and the shimmery ash trees. I want the extremes.

You can’t always get what you want, sure. But you can always know what you want and keep your eyes open for it. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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