I like the idea of concrete boxes full of lace and bits of tin, powdery remnants of a time before. Important things that will look small in a hundred years, squirreled away like canned food in a basement; light hits glass jars of pickled ocra and beets and we will live another day after this one.

My eyes are wide open, but I’ve let a passive voice overtake my former assertive one. I take you inside of me like water, like rain, like humidity. You permeate when you’re here but more when you’re far away. I’m tired of the far away part. There’s too much time to miss you, too much time to cycle through.

At sixteen I wrote someone a letter, confessing all of the lust I couldn’t express when he and I were together. People wrote letters then, even with the internet banging down the door of communication. I had special pens and special paper. Notebooks full of angst and childish problems. I could burn them if I wanted to, but fire is more dangerous and harder to control than a delete key.

When he read the letter he called me, but it was too late. I had already fallen out of lust, and the thought of his passive face and too light eyes and lank, long hair (and clammy  hands, if we’re being honest) made me cringe. When he called me it was to say he liked me that way too, but I couldn’t respond in turn. I told him I made a mistake and hung up the phone; cheeks on fire, heart dodging bullets.

I feel like, maybe, I’m paying for this slight. That a husband away so much, someone I can only have half the time is my payment for the mistakes I made. If I’m sad, it must have been something I did in the past. I must have done something wrong.

But then I remember how many clear blue days I’ve seen. How many greenhouses glowing bright green under glass. How many snow covered forests under purple and silver skies. Was it something I said to make me deserve this? This beautiful life? This compact and fiercely loved family? Did I do something honest and true on the same day that I broke someone else’s heart?

This tendency of mine to flesh out the dark fantasy and turn what’s real into minutia wears thin. There’s no room for it anymore. There are cabins with fireplaces that sit next to singing rivers. There are spirits in the mountains, silver-white. They hide beneath the rocks and the rocks are covered with soft moss. There is too much here that keeps me holy to give it all up. But I am alone too much for my own good. Alone sometimes I am strong, alone all the time I am empty.

Advertisements

2 thoughts on “

  1. i always love it when i see you have posted!

    perhaps all writers give too much rein to “the dark fantasy,” forgetting it is largely if not entirely imagined. we have no tolerance for the void; too many voices rush in, too many stories. It helps, i think, to know that we are making up stories while we are doing it. distraction helps. for me, sitting through a movie in the dark alone can interrupt the story in a necessary way. writing it out surely helps. this is beautifully writ, my friend. tomorrow, the tide may turn again, so don’t attach too much significance to today’s story, today’s feeling of emptiness. i speak from experience, from love. trust in the good and holy.

    love,
    a

"... all my lovers were there with me, all my past and futures."

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s