my love
Back in the day....197?-8?, we’d dated. Twice, we’d dated. More correctly we’d come together over several months twice, living together briefly in 1972, then dating over several months a few years later.
The first time we’d both been sidetracked by the “end of the world” and both of our interests were taken up with that believing in a higher purpose perhaps.
The next time we were just in separate universes. Now it probably is the end of the world and we two will just walk there together. It’s fine. We’ve found each other again and it’s good. We’re both much older now, broken and worn down by life and time. Who knows which one of us will cross the finish line first.
He pulls out his smattering of memorabilia, his life and times, promo shots, posters, news clippings and reviews. Then he pulls out his writing.
It’s hard to concentrate these days. Hard to read another’s writing. The TV is broadcasting the end of days while I contemplate his works. Eventually the TV wins the battle, along with the dinner he’s made for the both of us, brown rice with vegetables. It’s so good. I’m the cook but he outdoes me all the time. I chalk it up to his creativity. My food prep comes from books, recipes from the internet or my long departed mom, His comes from his endless urge to tinker, constantly asking the questions, “what about...?” And “what if...?”, yes, even with food.
This constant urge to see, find or accept another way fueled his writing and art, I think.
I shut off the TV and kissed him ‘goodnight’ then settled in to finish reading without the distractions. ‘God! I love him!’ I think to myself as I’m reading this incredible essay about his trip from Vegas to LA. I wrap myself in his visions of the highway, the rich description of every detail. Then I look at the dates. These are encased in printouts of emails to his wife from 1999.
I was raising children and fighting my way through a bad marriage in 1999. It takes two, so I’ll happily shoulder some of the blame but what struck me was the act of sharing his writing, back then, with her.
It was then I felt what I’d missed out on. I felt a pang of loss but realized that I wouldn’t have been good for him back then either, possibly.
There’s a sweetness in his sharing. It’s honest and simple and yet he is crazy complex at times too but never contrived or mean. I trust him, which is more than I can say about most men.
We came together this time with no pretense. I was prepared to offer friendship but was lucky enough to find love with him. I’m quite sure I had to be this burnished to appreciate the man he is. Timing is everything.
I hope he stays. I hope he continues to find his home with me. I was alone before he came and so much better for his company. So many times I count myself unworthy but “here” he is still and I thank all there is that he is still.
The first time we’d both been sidetracked by the “end of the world” and both of our interests were taken up with that believing in a higher purpose perhaps.
The next time we were just in separate universes. Now it probably is the end of the world and we two will just walk there together. It’s fine. We’ve found each other again and it’s good. We’re both much older now, broken and worn down by life and time. Who knows which one of us will cross the finish line first.
He pulls out his smattering of memorabilia, his life and times, promo shots, posters, news clippings and reviews. Then he pulls out his writing.
It’s hard to concentrate these days. Hard to read another’s writing. The TV is broadcasting the end of days while I contemplate his works. Eventually the TV wins the battle, along with the dinner he’s made for the both of us, brown rice with vegetables. It’s so good. I’m the cook but he outdoes me all the time. I chalk it up to his creativity. My food prep comes from books, recipes from the internet or my long departed mom, His comes from his endless urge to tinker, constantly asking the questions, “what about...?” And “what if...?”, yes, even with food.
This constant urge to see, find or accept another way fueled his writing and art, I think.
I shut off the TV and kissed him ‘goodnight’ then settled in to finish reading without the distractions. ‘God! I love him!’ I think to myself as I’m reading this incredible essay about his trip from Vegas to LA. I wrap myself in his visions of the highway, the rich description of every detail. Then I look at the dates. These are encased in printouts of emails to his wife from 1999.
I was raising children and fighting my way through a bad marriage in 1999. It takes two, so I’ll happily shoulder some of the blame but what struck me was the act of sharing his writing, back then, with her.
It was then I felt what I’d missed out on. I felt a pang of loss but realized that I wouldn’t have been good for him back then either, possibly.
There’s a sweetness in his sharing. It’s honest and simple and yet he is crazy complex at times too but never contrived or mean. I trust him, which is more than I can say about most men.
We came together this time with no pretense. I was prepared to offer friendship but was lucky enough to find love with him. I’m quite sure I had to be this burnished to appreciate the man he is. Timing is everything.
I hope he stays. I hope he continues to find his home with me. I was alone before he came and so much better for his company. So many times I count myself unworthy but “here” he is still and I thank all there is that he is still.
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