It was one o'clock in the morning, and you'd driven from your parents' house. And even though I'd just pushed the button to let you in, I was feigning sleep. I heard you park. Climb the stairs. Come in the door as quietly as you could, and walk up the stairs. Sling your bag into the corner of my room, and crawl in bed with me, shake my shoulder.
"Hey."
"Hi there."
And some pleasantries not worth remarking passed. I probably asked you about the drive. You probably assured me you made it fine, with some loud music and a lot of coffee. Your hand still on my shoulder, up to my neck, back down my arm.
I kissed you.
I kissed you, and everything stopped. Just for an instant. Not long enough to measure, and certainly not long enough to notice. But at nearly one o'clock in the morning, after I'd danced all night in a borrowed dress and lavender heels, after I'd had nothing to drink all night. Everything stopped. For one moment, the stars stopped spinning. The Earth stopped dead in its orbit, and so did the moon.
The tectonic plates of my heart rearranged themselves, silently, the only motion in the entire universe, I swear, while I kissed you for the first time in almost five years, and your hand moved from my shoulder to my neck, to my face, to my hair, and your quiet gasp under my lips caused everything to move again.
15 July 2008
11 July 2008
What Makes it all Better
Requiem--Robert Louis Stevenson.
Under the wide and starry sky
Dig the grave and let me lie:
Glad did I live, and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you 'grave for me:
Here he lies where he long'd to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
Under the wide and starry sky
Dig the grave and let me lie:
Glad did I live, and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you 'grave for me:
Here he lies where he long'd to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
06 July 2008
Doesn't Mean You Ain't Been On My Mind
It's been a while. I'm sorry about that. I got invested in loving where I am instead of constantly moping about how I wasn't elsewhere, and while I still miss Cleveland, and Pants, and all that, I'm also feeling a lot more rooted down here.
I also had to get over someone, or at least get back to the "partially/mostly/maybe over" place I was before I took up with this guy again. It was much easier than I thought--I don't know if it was the complete and utter assholishness with which that ended, or just the fact that his magic has declined since I was 19 and convinced I'd never love anyone else, but where last time it took a year, this time it took a month. And no crying when I passed our restaurant. I may even go there with someone else, someday. As soon as I'm dating someone I'm comfortable having ridiculously expensive dinners with.
As far as dating goes, it's amazing how many men are attracted to a girl who doesn't particularly want a boyfriend.
The other thing going on is that my grandmother is sick. With pancreatic cancer. This is one area where my line of work doesn't offer a lot of hope. We get all the incredibly depressing stats (five year survival rate: hovering around 2%) with none of the anecdotal "beating the odds" stories. People keep telling me she's going to be fine, and I keep wanting to throw shit at them. They know just as well as I do that she's going to die, definitely, at some point, and probably within the next year since she's refusing treatment. Don't fucking lie to me, I'm not stupid and neither are you.
When my grandfather died, and my mom went batshit crazy because apparently it had never occurred to her before that her parents, like everyone else on the planet, were mortal, I decided to just think about the fact that everyone I knew and loved was going to die someday. And that thought? It's not a bad one.
My grandmother's faith is strong; she believes she's going to Heaven and that she'll get to keep her eye on us from up there. She'd been so depressed before the diagnosis and has been in reasonably good spirits since that I would be selfish and foolish to encourage her to seek treatment. She's ready to go. I'm never going to be ready for her to go, but it's not my call. It's hers. I'd hope that someday my family would respect my decisions as well, and enjoy the time they have with me instead of borrowing grief from the future. She's not dead yet. Someday soon, she will be. I'll be sad then.
My grandmother, she's fond of saying "Well, I only have so much time, you know." To which my dad always replies, "Wait, I didn't know there was another option." We all only have so much time. Knowing how her death is (probably) going to arrive doesn't make the rest of her life meaningless, only to be passed in pre-emptive mourning.
I also had to get over someone, or at least get back to the "partially/mostly/maybe over" place I was before I took up with this guy again. It was much easier than I thought--I don't know if it was the complete and utter assholishness with which that ended, or just the fact that his magic has declined since I was 19 and convinced I'd never love anyone else, but where last time it took a year, this time it took a month. And no crying when I passed our restaurant. I may even go there with someone else, someday. As soon as I'm dating someone I'm comfortable having ridiculously expensive dinners with.
As far as dating goes, it's amazing how many men are attracted to a girl who doesn't particularly want a boyfriend.
The other thing going on is that my grandmother is sick. With pancreatic cancer. This is one area where my line of work doesn't offer a lot of hope. We get all the incredibly depressing stats (five year survival rate: hovering around 2%) with none of the anecdotal "beating the odds" stories. People keep telling me she's going to be fine, and I keep wanting to throw shit at them. They know just as well as I do that she's going to die, definitely, at some point, and probably within the next year since she's refusing treatment. Don't fucking lie to me, I'm not stupid and neither are you.
When my grandfather died, and my mom went batshit crazy because apparently it had never occurred to her before that her parents, like everyone else on the planet, were mortal, I decided to just think about the fact that everyone I knew and loved was going to die someday. And that thought? It's not a bad one.
My grandmother's faith is strong; she believes she's going to Heaven and that she'll get to keep her eye on us from up there. She'd been so depressed before the diagnosis and has been in reasonably good spirits since that I would be selfish and foolish to encourage her to seek treatment. She's ready to go. I'm never going to be ready for her to go, but it's not my call. It's hers. I'd hope that someday my family would respect my decisions as well, and enjoy the time they have with me instead of borrowing grief from the future. She's not dead yet. Someday soon, she will be. I'll be sad then.
My grandmother, she's fond of saying "Well, I only have so much time, you know." To which my dad always replies, "Wait, I didn't know there was another option." We all only have so much time. Knowing how her death is (probably) going to arrive doesn't make the rest of her life meaningless, only to be passed in pre-emptive mourning.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)