I enjoy my solitude. Starting my junior year of college, I lived by myself. When I studied abroad, I purposely picked a university where I wouldn’t know anyone. I love walking into yoga class knowing that today’s practice will be my own study. I find myself walking into an open gym just to shot free throws and listen to the steady bounce of the basketball as it hits the parkay floor. In fact, most days, I find that I don’t talk until my work shifts begins at 4:30pm. I’m a combination of an introvert and an extrovert. I enjoy the company of my friends, I like throwing parties, and I genuinely love being a customer service representative. But yet there is nothing quite like my solitude.

            A few weeks ago, I found myself sitting alone at a restaurant for lunch. Scanning the room, I took inventory of the clientele – mothers with daughters, businessmen and businesswomen, and the occasional single person. As I sipped on my water awaiting my salad, I sank into my own world. I pictured having lunch with my mom, and I sighed. I saw her peach-fuzz hair, the hair that fell and grew back during chemotherapy. I admired her perfect skin; skin that held its glow even when she lay dying. I inhaled her aroma; Chanel No. 5 meets Bath and Body Shop’s cocoa butter. I pictured the colorful scarves she wore, and I realized that I now own almost as many as she did. I laughed at the way she used to nurse her coffee as if it were some treasured potion that accompanied her everywhere throughout the day. I knew what she would order, and I knew the way she’d politely as for plastic silverware so that the mental wouldn’t leave a bad taste, a side effect of chemotherapy. I’d noticed that people would look at her, examining her bald head slightly scared, but silently respectful of her plight. And when the waiter put down my meal before me, the vision of her evaporated, and I was left by myself. But I smiled at my salad, knowing that I am not alone.

            My brother and I share a similar enjoyment of her solitude. Growing up together sharing the same bathroom and the same wall that divided our bedrooms, we still found each other walking past each other without a word. It wasn’t that we were mad (well, not all the time at least), just that we were in our own little worlds. My brother, four years my junior, grew up listening to jazz and reading the New York Times. His love of politics and media led him to study journalism at Ohio University. And so, we went out separate ways.

            Sometimes I forget that I have a brother, and I know that he probably feels the same way about me whether by choice or not, but when we chat over the phone or on the Internet, we find that almost nothing has been lost. Just yesterday I told him that I felt detached from him and from my father, and he blatantly responded, “Yes, you are.” And yet, I am okay with it. I say good night and tell him that I love him, and we each go our separate ways again.

            This morning as I nursed my morning coffee and stared at my cereal as it grew soggy, I thought about the other person that I think about in my solitude, my dad.

            As a child, my dad stayed after basketball practice and fed me balls reminding me to square my shoulders and bend my knees. We fought on the tennis court when he knew I could run faster or focus harder. We grew disgusted with each other and sometimes refused to talk for hours. But, in all of our stubbornness, we bonded. I watched him work alone in the dining room as the night grew old. I knew no one worked harder than him, and because of that, I always wanted to make sure he knew I was busting my ass.

             My dad lives in his own little world, and I reside in my own world as well, but yet our paths always cross. When I lived at home, we sat at the breakfast table without exchanging a word, but I knew there was a silent understanding between us. And I think I’ve realized over the years that sometimes I clash with my father the most because we enjoy our solitude so much. I’m my dad’s girl, but my mother’s daughter.

             My dad, brother, and I now live in three different states. We each have our own lives, lives that thrive on the notion of solitude. Although we rarely get to see each other, I never feel completely alone. When I do, I reach out to my brother for a laugh and call my father just to hear him say, “I love you, baby doll.” I am content.