As the hours passed after opening Roger’s e-mail, my anger cooled, the cloud cover broke, and I grew wistful. I had not seen him since that night, so I imagine it seemed as though our temporary and fleeting reconciliations, were perhaps more than they were. Instead, the growing bonds between us had reached their limits. The possibilities were finite. I had misjudged his introversion, his core sense of quiet, for introspection. I had forgotten why I had always preferred David’s company over nearly everyone else. David understood that part of me; he encouraged the introspection. He “got me” at the most fundamental level, because he too explored the terrain of the imagination. He would lose his wallet, his keys. The external world of the five senses was his obstacle course. But he understood emotions and the tangled skin of relationships. Perhaps I hoped, unreasonably, that with enough time Roger would take David’s place. I sold us all short.

We continue to correspond, to occasionally see each other in person, but the exchange has returned, if only temporarily, to a more superficial level. We talk about his and my moving, his job, my teaching, the weather, I attempted to explain The Handmaids Tale, and he attempted to listen, and in an attempt to spare us both, I actually suggested the film may be “more linear”. He talks about the future renovations on his future apartment. And if I am not feeling particularly gracious, I toss intentionally deep and stinging barbs over his part in what will never be.

Then, I resolve to accept Roger as he is, an arms length away for mow, and to guard against my tendency to judge others who fail to show a talent for introspection. That in itself may be a lost cause; after all, who doesn’t secretly believe that their way of seeing the world is the most honest? And here I am, perhaps betraying Roger, using his words to paint myself the victor. Probably not.

Last Thursday evening I walked onto the bridge from the sloping hill of Mt. Pleasant, then down to the distillery district. A friend of mine, whose first book of poetry had won a prestigious prize, finally providing validation needed to maintain the ascent, was giving a reading at a The Boiler Room. I sat in the restaurant’s back room on a folding chair, listening. His poetry reminded me of nothing less than the inherent beauty of words, each line condensing and polishing language, each piece a deft construction of idea, fear, and razor sharp emotion.

Afterwords I felt remarkably alive, buzzing with energy, my senses heightened. I climbed back up the incline slowly, deliberately. I yearned to describe the world I saw around me, the landscape and the people who fascinate and trouble me. My mind wrestled with the delicate play of words. Behind me the looming skyscrapers, century homes, and warehouses fell away. I turned, and I watched the evening city spread out before me; the shimmering lights on the Rosedale bridge, a plane descending over the lake. I thought of Joe, how he must be doing, immersed in a new life on the east coast. And as the night air rolled through the trees, I turned back towards my home; the moon cast my shadow on the path before me, and as my feet hit the last landing, I struggled to find the words to tell you this. And the struggle was impossible, exquisite, and complete.