Far longer than one should
I talk to the thought of you, tell it to stay away from me, to stop bothering me, especially now, when the timing is perfect, with the rain and lack of oversight, for a little switch to flip —
— and there I go, lost in the memories again.
We played house, in an easy, joyful, peaceful way. Lazy coffee chats on the deck out back, meditation mid-morning on the yellow couch, a gift from your mother, one you weren’t sure you liked. I slept there often, when I awoke in the middle of the night and went downstairs so I didn’t wake you, setting an alarm for 6am so I could feed the dogs, letting you linger in bed.
It was all there, the care and feeding of one another, emotional, physical, intellectual, in glimpses and glimmers, when you weren’t bored and I wasn’t annoyed or otherwise preoccupied.
We danced with the dogs in the kitchen, memorized the lyrics to Pink and Kenny Chesney songs and listened to the soundtrack from that Bill Murray performance, the one we both saw, separately.
You chased me upstairs, with a 5-second head start, one that you never once honored. We wrestled and you tickled, determined to get me to scream, because when I did, it was blood curdling. Nice to mix it up for the neighbors, you’d say. Can’t always be sounds of romance coming from here.
I think the worst part is knowing that we never got a chance to get really good. To have fights that weren’t about lying or cheating, but instead about how you need to go to the doctor and lets replace those gutters this year and when are you going to get that tooth fixed, my dear?
I feel like that little neighbor boy we adopted one summer. He never wanted to be left behind, remember? And, yet he was the one who left us, eventually.
“What is date?” He asked one day. I showed him a picture of two people out to dinner, tried to explain that you were doing something nice for me. He said he should come too and you told him no, but it broke both our hearts to do so. “Tomorrow.” You say, as we drive away, because it’s off to the beach on Sundays, just the three of us, two dogs and a lot of love in tow.
Idyllic, until I think.
Of you with her, her bruised thighs and her thickness, rough with years of alcohol abuse, reeking of neediness. We’d discussed her traumas, you and I. Her self-created misery. Her attacks on you, the impact on your career. She’s a sick person, you’d say. Hope she gets well someday. And, I condoned the pity. Even encouraged outreach. Silly me, silly me. I thought you were doing good in the world. Helping others to see what you had been able to see.
But, then you sat, with her, on beach towels I’d washed and folded a hundred times. Had a summer, I would only later discover, enjoying the same beach that we also shared— with the little neighbor boy, with your sister, your nephews, on the fourth of July, on my birthday, on your birthday, on Thanksgiving and Christmas, and all the times in between.
I’m the kind of girl who sticks around. Far longer than one ever should. I look for the soul of a person, what they could be, who they are without all the human detriments. It’s in my nature. I’m a counselor, after all. And, it takes a long time to break the habit of hope.
