An Owen Moment

Today on our flight, about 4 hours in I decided to put in my earbuds and read.
I held The Belljar in my hand like a butterfly that got its wings wet; its old spine and binding fragile. Layers, peeling like a sunburn you weren’t supposed to peel. The words grew dimmer and smaller as people shut off their overhead lights.
I’m not much of a reader, it’s something I’m working on.
I wish I was the kind of girl to get excited over a book.
I was so absorbed in the world unfolding before my eyes, I had forgot of the music that was fully bleeding into my ears. At a moment I did manage to snap out of my auto pilot zone, only because it was broken by the sweeping, prominently calming vibrato of John Denver; singing sweetly of the sunshine on his shoulders.
This was so nice.
I realized how much I was living an Owen moment.
Owen lent me this book; months ago when he insisted I take my time with it (clearly knowing I’m not the most avid or motivated reader.)
I imagined him sitting out on a wood deck for some reason, like at a cabin; Denver flooding the background of the woods with a creek and dragonflies & this very book beneath his long, soft fingers. I imagined his blue eyes darting left to right left to right, his Juul absent-mindedly resting between his teeth.
Here I was, as if I’d swapped bodies of visions with him; I even wore his blue pullover on the plane, which really added to the introspection of our parallels.
I love how wildly content he is with the simplest of moments, how he romanticizes his alone time, and tells of these minute moments as if they are significant core memories that shaped his character, proudly told as stories that have been repeated to many before and many more after me.
It was that moment I started to notice the different ways I’ve taken under his wings, the different habits or hobbies I’ve picked up since dating him.
Like the way he directs the main of his voice from the back of his throat like he’s congested when he speaks, or the way he coordinates the color of his Levi’s to his treasured single-stitch tees.
The way he talks to his cat Django, with solid eye contact as if the words really mean a damn thing in translation.
And of course the basics such as the same musicians he cycles through in the car, now added to my own rotation; or I catch myself obsessively binge watching the same shows I swore I’d never touch, but gave a chance when I stayed with him and it was what he had been watching.
It’s cute how humans copy one another.
We’re self proclaimed unique and un-replicable.
But not so far deep down we’re really all just reiterations and combinations of an original masterpiece; a Frankenstein of one another.
How almost silly it is that we imitate the people we endear, often without self perception.
By loving Owen, I’m loving all of the people he’s loved before. His parents, his siblings, his friends, his exes..
I wonder if I’ve left the same print on anybody else’s personality. If I’ve influenced the faces they make to themselves when they think nobody is watching, or how they color their jokes with a certain tone, or what they dip their fries in or the types of hats they wear or the niche aesthetic of movies they find cool and gritty..
I wonder if anybody loves me like that.
If they love me in the small details of habits and patterns; in the number of stitches I wear, or the way I talk to my cat.
If I’m a coffee ring stained into their table, or a crop circle embedded in the carpet from a piece of furniture that’s been planted in the same spot for years.
And I guess I do wonder sometimes then, just if anybody loves me.