Thursday, April 21, 2011
Suddenly, I have so many questions.
What was the inside of your house like, growing up? And what were the Territories like? What did you like the best about Europe? What food comforts you? Do you have a favourite colour? What is your favourite memory of doing something alone, all by yourself?
But I could never comfortably ask you about your new job. Because then it would be Real.
I felt like I was trying so desperately to get you know you just as you are leaving. Why didn't I ask you these things before? Did I want you to remain mysterious? Was I afraid of knowing you too well...?
I never knew you liked your oatmeal with milk. But you like your eggs over-easy. And your coffee black. And I'll likely always remember these things. Maybe that's what I was afraid of all this time - never forgetting.
I think about all the things we talked about doing, but never did. Like going to Beats, Breaks & Culture fest at the Harbourfront. Like dancing wildly in the streets to Samba Elegua at a Pedestrian Sunday in Kensington. Like going to Manitoulin Island. I mean, we did have three years... why did I wait that long to cook you a nice meal and make a hot breakfast?
But then I think of all the things we did do; all of the music, concerts, dancing, driving, ethnic food eating, yoga, walking, writing, hair trimming, hair waxing, hand holding, and just holding...
No matter how hot, sticky, sweaty and entangled in the sheets we were, I always woke to you holding me (even if it was dictated by the space (or lack thereof) in a single bed...).
I think about all these things and realize that I loved you in a million different ways. And it's hard for me to bear the thought of not waking in your arms. And when I realize exaclty how hard it is for me to translate this lump in my throat and these tears that roll down my cheeks, I know that I will love you in a million more.
I was so afraid at first, so afraid to tell you that I loved you.
And knowing that you were leaving made me more afraid to tell you, lest it sound like a desperate attempt to keep you. The news of your going ate at me from the inside out - like the time you told me you were moving out of your house on Gordon Street. I've never dealt well with Loss and Leaving and having you go is like something between and break-up and a death. Slow, and deliberate.
I've been mourning your leaving since the weekend I helped move you out of your apartment. I cried for days after that. And yet, we tried to celebrate - our 'last' two nights in Stratford. Trying to drink each other up while we could, so desperately. It makes me think of the duality of the half-empty fridge people keep right before they travel. Such a strange, conservative half-life we lead as we try to make meals out of whatever food it is we have left. But that isn't quite right, is it - it isn't conservation that we practice at the end of things - it is expenditure, using up the last of what remains. Maximizing use before expiry - and I don't want us to expire.
I am clinging onto whatever pieces I have left of you, knowing that I have to let the rest go. Let it go.
What is the force that takes you away? There, to Her - the woman, the land. Where I haven't been made a place to belong. Is it true, what they say, that sometimes Love just isn't enough? Because I love you, right - and you love me, right? So I wonder to myself, What is it that keeps us apart in this life?
And that inevitably leads me back to wondering about the force that brought us together in the first place.
What was that?
And what held it there, between us?
With boundless love, through time and over oceans,