I am up before him, which is rare. I feel hungover even though I’m not. The restless sleep continues.
There is a chill in the air and I love it it’s cool caress. This is my season.
I never understand why he stands in the shower so long. I start shouting about saving the planet and he shouts something back in reply but I can’t hear him. Afterwards we are laughing.
Sunday travel. I look around the train and then the street. We are in our millions. All of this energy that we emit and absorb. Living and dying. The multitudes of us.
Her message said there is a bleed on the brain. They are operating tomorrow. I reply saying how saddened I am to hear this. We both hope she will be ok.
I wonder afterwards how they diagnosed her. What symptoms she might have had. My heart hurts for them. I send more messages. This is always when the distance is hardest. When the hugs are out of reach.
Trader Joe’s on a Sunday is not for the faint of heart. I remember my first year here, when I went in the day before Thanksgiving, my holiday naivety came to an abrupt end.
She hugs me goodbye. We speak briefly about Christmas. Availability. Family. Difficulty. There is a parade on Fifth and she has to hurry to get to the airport on time.
The little bear is so sleepy. I watch him as he naps, my heart expanding with a love that has no limits.
I hear her call my name and I turn around to see them. She is smiling. She tells me that they are so glad they found me and how good they feel about the care I give. It feels beautiful to hear this. Especially because I was playing the comparison game earlier.
Those old stories. Tired old chapters. She is such a good writer. A real writer. Everyone loves her. Her work matters. Look at the comments. Look at them.
Why do we do this to ourselves?
It is just after 5.30am when I hear him bark and then I see them come into the dark of the apartment. She messaged last night. She had given him a flea and tick treatment and he had some kind of adverse reaction.
I had said she should bring him to me while she met her early client. She apologizes for the hour. I tell her it’s ok. That he’s family. And so is she. She looks like she might cry. She’s been up all night with him.
He is agitated and restless. He cannot settle. I try to soothe him.
I do not understand gun culture. There are rivers of blood and people still defend their right to carry the cause. I am tired of hearing about rights.
I sometimes wonder if there can be hope for America.
It is not yet 9am but it feels like the afternoon.
I don’t really have a proper lunch to put together but I can’t face another supermarket trip so I make it work.
He’s nearby so he drops in for a bit. He forgot he had a networking event this evening and I know he’s not really feeling in the mood for it but he goes anyway.
The 6pm light is so golden. The kind of light that transforms everything it touches.
I haven’t heard back about how her operation went. I send two messages. One to England. One to Italy. The time difference means I probably won’t hear from either of them until tomorrow.
The movie is everything I need it to be. It’s been a while since I watched something like this. Since I got lost in something that feels like magic.
He has been so tired today. Napping for most of the afternoon. Now it is bedtime and he starts running around the apartment in a frenzy.
He wakes me at 430am barking. And again at 6am. I tell him I love him, but no.
He thinks he’s protecting me from intruders. But it’s just New York noise.
The tiredness is really hitting me. I feel like I’m moving through weighted air. We walk to the river. I am not that tired that I don’t notice the beauty of the morning sun hitting the rippling water.
I mean, it’s not water I’d want to swim in. But it looks so pretty when the light is right.
The operation was postponed until today. She has already woken from it, the message says. She said a few words to her family. Now we wait.
I feel as though I’m occupying many different spaces at once. Gratitude. Grief. Longing. Hope. Despair. Joy. These are not just today’s spaces. I sometimes think I am six people in one body.
It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth. The minor fall, the major lift.
She has taken a turn for the worse. They are struggling to wake her. The next twelve hours are critical.
I message her and tell her I love her. I remind her that I am five hours behind in New York. So I will be awake when they are sleeping. She can reach me if the night is too long or lonely.
I think of other times together. Festivals. Lunches. That Christmas we all congregated in her house. How it felt like home. How the sofa was so comfortable.