A Brass Fireplace
This is an essay-type thing that I've been rolling over in my mind since Friday. I wrote it, so I thought I'd share it with my lovely f-list. ;)
"A Brass Fireplace"
On a crisp, fall, evening I walk home from the subway, and think of you. With headphones stuck in my ears, playing some melodic yet still discordant song, I stomp up the two flights of stairs from the 2 train (or was it a 3 this time?) until I burst out into the windy openness of Grand Army Plaza. My feet push leaves out of my path as I stride quickly down the sidewalk towards the apartment I now call home.
It's on nights like these that I think of what we could have been--if only I hadn't been such a mess, I could have been ready for the "us" of you and me. The scent of a freshly lit fire wafts through the air and crosses my path; I try to speed up to avoid the sensory memory that I know is coming, but it's too late. Suddenly, I see you, standing in front of a brass fireplace surrounded by packed bookshelves in what would have been our apartment. In the fall, we always used to talk about what our life together would look like in five or ten years.
I loved the fall, it gave me energy and joy to to know that the winter was coming--that the first snow would soon cover the grey reality of our city with its pure white blanket of perfection. I felt magic flowing through me in the fall, but you felt pangs of death. You, like my father, hated the winter. While I looked forward to the first snowfall, you saw it looming on the horizon with a sense of dread. For me, the fall brought hope for the future; for you, it brought remorse for the past.
I looked into the coming months of winter with hope, while you faced them with fear. We responded to these dichotomous emotions by planning for the future. For a moment, we'd stop fighting and paint a mental picture of what our lives would look like in the years to come. Those conversations were always happy ones, we'd talk about the apartment or house we'd share and the lives of the people who'd inhabit it, always hoping for children.
I keep walking and notice that I'm almost home; almost ready to unlock the door of my apartment, where there are only a few signs of you left, and face the reality of my failure to keep you there. As the blocks go by, I think of the brass fireplace, of the children we planned to have. With a clearer mind, I would remember that I don't want that life anymore, and I'd remember that I never really wanted it in the first place. But tonight, as I walk home from the subway on this beautiful fall evening, I smell the fire and think of you. I smile to myself as I realize that now, the fall makes me think of death, too.
"A Brass Fireplace"
On a crisp, fall, evening I walk home from the subway, and think of you. With headphones stuck in my ears, playing some melodic yet still discordant song, I stomp up the two flights of stairs from the 2 train (or was it a 3 this time?) until I burst out into the windy openness of Grand Army Plaza. My feet push leaves out of my path as I stride quickly down the sidewalk towards the apartment I now call home.
It's on nights like these that I think of what we could have been--if only I hadn't been such a mess, I could have been ready for the "us" of you and me. The scent of a freshly lit fire wafts through the air and crosses my path; I try to speed up to avoid the sensory memory that I know is coming, but it's too late. Suddenly, I see you, standing in front of a brass fireplace surrounded by packed bookshelves in what would have been our apartment. In the fall, we always used to talk about what our life together would look like in five or ten years.
I loved the fall, it gave me energy and joy to to know that the winter was coming--that the first snow would soon cover the grey reality of our city with its pure white blanket of perfection. I felt magic flowing through me in the fall, but you felt pangs of death. You, like my father, hated the winter. While I looked forward to the first snowfall, you saw it looming on the horizon with a sense of dread. For me, the fall brought hope for the future; for you, it brought remorse for the past.
I looked into the coming months of winter with hope, while you faced them with fear. We responded to these dichotomous emotions by planning for the future. For a moment, we'd stop fighting and paint a mental picture of what our lives would look like in the years to come. Those conversations were always happy ones, we'd talk about the apartment or house we'd share and the lives of the people who'd inhabit it, always hoping for children.
I keep walking and notice that I'm almost home; almost ready to unlock the door of my apartment, where there are only a few signs of you left, and face the reality of my failure to keep you there. As the blocks go by, I think of the brass fireplace, of the children we planned to have. With a clearer mind, I would remember that I don't want that life anymore, and I'd remember that I never really wanted it in the first place. But tonight, as I walk home from the subway on this beautiful fall evening, I smell the fire and think of you. I smile to myself as I realize that now, the fall makes me think of death, too.