There are times when I feel utterly connected to everything and everyone in this universe we call home, when time seems to suddenly make sense and life is comprehensible.  I feel as if the world around me- the buildings and cats and people and soccer balls- is tangible and real.  I feel connections to the places I travel to every day and the people I see there.  I imagine multi-colored ribbons connecting everyone to every place they have journeyed and to every person they have spoken.  The world is a giant globe of shining ribbons, an interconnected web of interactions.  It is times like these when I feel utterly at peace, like I have finally found my place in the world.   These moments are rare and I treasure them like a pirate would his bounty. 
I find the homeless man under the bridge.  He is sniffling and cold; his wispy hair is blowing in the wind.  A putrid smell hits me as I approach.  I ignore it, holding out my clenched fist.  He is puzzled, tilting his head and pursing his lips.  I open my hand and out tumbles two hundred dollar bills, crumpled from my tight grip.  He mutters in disbelief, and I walk away.  My footsteps make zig-zag patterns in the snow.
Snow.  There are so many things I loved about snow as a child.  I loved how my feet grew harder and harder to lift as I sank deeper and deeper into the cold whiteness.  I loved how, if I happened to gaze out of my window at night, I could see the snow flurries blown by the wind into magnificent patterns:  a special picture, just for me.  I loved how pristine and clean the snow was, and I rejoiced in its brightness.
But now?  Snow is a symbol of decay, of deterioration.  The snow begins white and bright and ready to see the world.  It bounces and runs through the air, delighted to finally be in existence.  It lands, coming into contact with the earth.  It settles down, still cheerful and fresh, waiting to be seen.  Then the people come.  They trample over its youthful joy, stamping their boots and crushing the snow beneath their feet.  The snow becomes yellow and muddy.  Its beautiful whiteness is transformed into a dirty slush.  It is repellant and ugly.  Eventually, after having been soiled by the world, it melts away into the earth, gone.  It reminds me of our eventual fate.  Everyone dies.  It is a fact of life. 
I am on the bridge now.  It is decrepit and rusting, but it will serve its purpose. 
I take out my phone.  It is an old phone with individual keys for each letter and number.  It is black and practical, a symbol of endurance
I dial a familiar number, and then I wait.  One ring.  Two rings.  Three rings.  Finally, she picks up.
“Hey!” she exclaims.  Her voice is too loud.  “What’s up?”  I hear noise in the background, voices talking and glasses clanking.
“Sam.  I…” I start.  I cannot get the sentence out, the words clogging my throat.  My mouth feels coated with cotton, and my heard is beating wildly.  Tears are forming in my eyes, and I wonder if this is the beginning of a panic attack.
“Kaia?” she asks.
“Yeah, Sam.  I need you to know,” I cough, almost choking.  “I need you to know.  I love you.”
“Aw, I love you too.”
“No.  Sam.  Not only in a best friend way.  I am completely in love with you, Sam Anderson.  And- and I know you don’t feel the same about me, and that’s okay.  It’s okay.  I… just needed you to know before…”
There is a long silence before she says, “Kaia, it’s all good, it’s all good.  We’re gooood.  We’re friends.  Friends stay together forever.” 
Sam is slurring her words now, and I try to picture her where she is now.  Probably in a bar somewhere, brown leather jacket thrown carelessly across a chair.  Blond hair in disarray from an encounter with the brown-haired guy in the corner.  Jeans tight on her legs; combat boots making hollow thumps against the floor.  Sam probably has a drink sitting in front of her now, rings of perspiration decorating the bar from the countless drinks she has had before.  
I try not to think about how her eyes are probably cloudy with drink, and her mind addled.  I try not to think about the fact that the last conversation my best friend and I will have is one in which one of us is utterly and completely drunk.  I try not to think about the thoughts I’ve been having this past year, the thoughts that keep me tossing and turning at night when the moon is shining through my window.  Instead I think about something Sam and I used to do every Friday, never failing until Sam fell into drink, heading out every night to one of those sketchy bars near her apartment.
“Sam?”  I whisper.
“Yeah?”  she whispers back.  
“Will you dance with me, like we used to?  You know, the phone Macarena?”
“I’ll totally dance with you, babe.  Let’s go.”
I smile, knowing she can’t see me, but smiling anyway. 
“One.  Two.  Three. Four,” I start.
“Five. Six. Seven. Eight,” she says into the phone.
We both continue counting out loud, whispering.  We extend our right arms.  Then our left arms.  Then we turn them over, one at a time.  Then we touch our shoulders, our heads, our hips, our butts.  We spin in circles, our own special touch.
As I dance, phone clutched tightly in my hand, I think about how Sam is probably so drunk she is doing all the wrong moves.  But I do not care, not now.  All that matters is that 9000 miles away, my best friend is trying her best to make me happy.  The feeling of connections returns for one fleeting moment, a pang of contentment.  I am connected to my best friend for this one instant, this five minute phone conversation.  But the feeling fades quickly, and I am left drifting, alone and lost.
When we finish the dance, I hold the phone back up to my ear.  I can hear Sam’s breathing, loud and erratic. 
“Bye, Sam,” I whisper.
“What?  I can’t hear you,” Sam says, words smashed together.
I hang up. 
I lean against the railing, my winter coat aggravatingly bright against the dull metal.  I suddenly can’t stand it, can’t stand the brightness, can’t stand the utter liveliness of my coat.  Tears build in my eyes and my ears start to buzz.
“No, no, no,” I whisper.  “No, no, no!  Stop it, stop it, stop it.”
I tear off the coat in desperation, throwing it on the ground and kicking it away.  It is still not enough, and the buzz in my ears grows louder.  Tears are falling down my face now, and I desperately kick the coat off the bridge.  It lands in the water below with a soft splash.  I sit near the edge of the bridge, curled up and trembling.  I am sobbing into my knees. 
“You’re so ridiculous,” I whisper to myself.  “So, so stupid.  I hate you.  I hate you.  I hate you.  You’re an idiot.  Stupid.  Stupid.  Pathetic.”
My hair falls in clumps around me.  I haven’t washed it in weeks.  The shiny chocolate brown has dulled to a frizzy straw-like texture.  I cannot force myself to get up, so I pick up my phone from where I dropped it. 
I dial a number.  The phone rings.  And rings.  And rings.  Finally, I hear a voice: You’ve reached Aurora.  I’m probably at work or cooking dinner.  If you leave your name and number, I’ll call you back later.  Bye!
I sigh and hang up.  Aurora, Aurora.  Rory probably does not want to hear from her failure of a little sister.  She has probably locked the memories of her and me in an abandoned corner of her brain and thrown away the key.  I remember once when I was in elementary I was the lead in the school play.  Rory invited all her friends and they sat in the first row and cheered so loudly at the end, even though she was in high school.  I can still remember her proud shout of, “That’s my little sister!”  She sounded so happy.  I also remember a year ago I was attending her birthday party along with many of Rory’s work friends.  I remember sitting on her couch staring at the black screen of the television with a glass of wine in my hand.  Her friend Cindy, dressed in a tasteful black dress and white shawl, glanced at my short red dress and in dislike.
“Who’s that?” Cindy whispered to Rory.
“Oh, that’s my little sister,” Rory said quietly.  Ashamedly. 
I’m not sure why I still call Rory “Rory” in my head.  She prefers to go by Aurora now.  More regal and businesslike.   I imagine her now, with her tight blond bun and black and white pantsuit, walking around her high-rise office with a clipboard and a calculator. 
I redial Ro-Aurora’s number.  You’ve reached Aurora.  I’m probably at work or cooking dinner.  If you leave your name and number, I’ll call you back later.  Bye!
After I hear a beep, I decide to record my message.
Hey, Rory.  Uh.  You’re probably asleep right now, seeing as it’s almost midnight.  But… I miss you.  We never talk anymore.  I know… I know I embarrass you, and I’m sorry.  I really am.  Bye.
I hang up and look off over the bridge.  I can’t see far in the darkness.  I glance down at the river.  Moonlight shines on the light of the river.  I am crying now, tears dripping off my chin and landing on the cracked sidewalk of the bridge.  I lean forward against the cold metal railing, freezing from the loss of my jacket. 
The tears are making me choke and not letting me speak.  I pick up my phone and type in a number.   I send a text: Happy New Year’s, daddy.
Dropping my phone onto the pavement, I climb up unsteadily onto the railing of the bridge.  Sobbing, I clutch the bridge shakily and shuffle my feet. 
There are times when I feel utterly unconnected to everything and everyone in this universe we call home, when time seems to suddenly flow erratically and life is incomprehensible.  I feel lost and alone in the world, untethered and floating freely.  My panic overwhelms me and I reach out, grasping for any semblance of humanity.  I feel as if I’m floating in the ocean, the waves pushing and pulling me as I thrash desperately. 
This feeling is coating my insides, filling me up with agony and sadness. 
I hear a noise and glance up.  Fireworks are filling the air, booming and exploding with magnificent brilliance.  They are of all colors, blue and red and yellow.  I take a deep breath and focus on the fireworks.  I’d like the last thing I see to be something beautiful.
Then, I jump.