In Which I Put The Yellow Kitchen Lighted-Sex Into A Cupboard
There are things to remember that won't go away. Some things do go, they already have gone, whispered themselves right out the door, to dissolve in the outside air like smoke, but some will never leave that smoky blue room in my mind, and that's becoming all right. There are things said in the dark, with hands brushed across shoulders and mouths upon breasts, that will never lose their fierce tenderness or incredible levels of intimacy. And, for that matter, love. They continue to make my insides throb with aches every time they pop into my mind. And they're always popping, never invited. I'm never coaxing them into full color, they just pop, obscenely and garishly and shockingly. They just won't be lost; they won't go. I was never going to write about them, because, number one, there are words like "breasts" involved, and, number two, people keep telling me to forget about them. But here I am, I'm writing about them, and I'm feeling that sweet, smoky hurt. It feels a little like being too close to some burning incense that smells wonderful. Dizzy.
It's impossible to forget some of them. It's impossible. And that is all right. It really is. In prayer and ponderation, I am coming to know what is going to leave and go on its way and what isn't. There are beautiful things that happened that probably would have been better off not happening, at this point, but, then again, sometimes people sacrifice comfort and reality to know different pieces of true beauty. I'd like to think I did some really bold things, made some really bold decisions, took a leap I'd never taken before, of something like faith but its opposite, its risky brother, and was later smacked in the face for it--but before the smack in the face and after the bold decision came some really exquisite moments. To write about them is something I have never attempted, because the enormous pulchritude of each tiny second is completely overwhelming all on its own.
There was a sheer pitch blackness in that room, too dark for us to see any bit of each other with our eyes, and at other times, yellow darkness, when the kitchen light was on and shining in; it was shining onto the closeness and breathlessness that I hope and fervently pray will be topped and mountain-topped by someone else in my life, because it completely consumed me. It overtook everything. It was a sweet substance of which we were the only two people on earth to partake of. Together we would catch light from the kitchen in each other's eyes and move in sync, like we were underwater. We were we, and not he and I. We were the we of me. Those hours seemed endless, they seemed like they had never started and they wouldn't be ending, either. It's strange to remember them now, knowing that they happened, but that they never started and that they never ended. They're in this queer gilded picture frame in my mind, warm there.
They never cool, those hours. There is something about them that will never be again, there will never be that love again, that touching, that closeness; there will be closeness, but it will never be that again.
Francie was trembling violently. Her teeth made little biting sounds.
"Mama," she moaned. "MAMA!"
"Say something," demanded Francie. "Why don't you say something?"
"What can I say?"
"Say that I'm young--that I'll get over it. Go ahead and say it. Go ahead and lie."
"I know that's what people say--you'll get over it. I'd say it, too. But I know it's not true. Oh, you'll be happy again, never fear. But you won't forget. Every time you fall in love it will be because something in the man reminds you of him."
"Mother, he asked me to be with him for the night. Should I have gone?"
"There are two truths," said Katie finally. "As a mother, I say it would have been a terrible thing for a girl to sleep with a stranger--a man she had known less than forty-eight hours. Horrible things might have happened to you. Your whole life might have been ruined. As your mother, I tell you the truth."
"But as a woman..." she hesitated. "I will tell you the truth as a woman. It would have been a very beautiful thing. Because there is only one you love that way".
There is something that I know. He will be in that room in our very wrought-iron black bed, on our very light brown flowered sheets under our very yellow cabbage rose-patterned with her, with another her, someday he will be, soon or not, lovingly or not, consequentially or not, habitually or not, to replace me or not, but he will think of me as he hovers above her or lies next to her or moves behind her as he kisses her neck and he will think, then, at that moment, when he moves to whisper "I love you" out of habit and realizes what happened to make it her and not me. He will wonder that, and he will know, because I know, we both do, and if I knew him better, I could tell you whether he will dismiss it and continue with someone else in our room with the forest green carpet, with her, or will dismiss it and stop, or will let it consume him and stop, and think, and cry. I do not know what he will do, or, I daresay, what he is currently doing. What he has done. I hope for the sacredness of our time together that he has done the last, but I also hope for the meaninglessness of our time together that he has done the first instead, pushing me away from his mind and my body away from his as his is close and heating to someone else's, for their time together, someone seamless and dimpled with hope who is his new stranger, a new stranger to be something for, for a time. Someone to touch, someone to caress, someone to cup and hold and brace with and move against who is not me. Not we. And later, he will repeat the process. Make the next her the new former her, or the former me. Please, God, let Andy take care of a permanent her. Let him keep someone.
There is another thing I know. I will be in another room, somewhere, in some kind of something with someone, the one I will love, who will love me, and as we are something close to each other, as we become we, I will remember him. I will remember Andy and our everlasting hours of closeness. They will be closed in their cupboard, it will be closed from now until that moment, at which it will open, and I will stand on the brink of our room for that moment--I will stare into our room, wonderously, tearfully, worshipfully, and I will reminisce. I will take moments to drown myself in that room, to breathe its scent, to feel the carpet with my toes as I climb into our bed, to pull the cabbage-rosed quilt over my shoulders, to feel his back in front of me as I nestle, for the last time, into the space between his shoulder blades, with my arm wrapped around him and hand over his heart. I will kiss the back of his neck, some tears will fall warmly and uncontrollably out of my eyes, I will squeeze him, and then I will get up. I will put my clothes back on, I will sit on the side of the bed, smooth his beard a little, kiss him, and he will lingeringly hold to the tips of my fingers until I have pulled completely away from the bed and walked back out the door, never to revisit him in my memory there again. I will shut that cupboard forever and return to the man I love, who loves me, who I will never leave again, even for a milisecond, for the boy who lives in a cupboard.
It's impossible to forget some of them. It's impossible. And that is all right. It really is. In prayer and ponderation, I am coming to know what is going to leave and go on its way and what isn't. There are beautiful things that happened that probably would have been better off not happening, at this point, but, then again, sometimes people sacrifice comfort and reality to know different pieces of true beauty. I'd like to think I did some really bold things, made some really bold decisions, took a leap I'd never taken before, of something like faith but its opposite, its risky brother, and was later smacked in the face for it--but before the smack in the face and after the bold decision came some really exquisite moments. To write about them is something I have never attempted, because the enormous pulchritude of each tiny second is completely overwhelming all on its own.
There was a sheer pitch blackness in that room, too dark for us to see any bit of each other with our eyes, and at other times, yellow darkness, when the kitchen light was on and shining in; it was shining onto the closeness and breathlessness that I hope and fervently pray will be topped and mountain-topped by someone else in my life, because it completely consumed me. It overtook everything. It was a sweet substance of which we were the only two people on earth to partake of. Together we would catch light from the kitchen in each other's eyes and move in sync, like we were underwater. We were we, and not he and I. We were the we of me. Those hours seemed endless, they seemed like they had never started and they wouldn't be ending, either. It's strange to remember them now, knowing that they happened, but that they never started and that they never ended. They're in this queer gilded picture frame in my mind, warm there.
They never cool, those hours. There is something about them that will never be again, there will never be that love again, that touching, that closeness; there will be closeness, but it will never be that again.
Francie was trembling violently. Her teeth made little biting sounds.
"Mama," she moaned. "MAMA!"
"Say something," demanded Francie. "Why don't you say something?"
"What can I say?"
"Say that I'm young--that I'll get over it. Go ahead and say it. Go ahead and lie."
"I know that's what people say--you'll get over it. I'd say it, too. But I know it's not true. Oh, you'll be happy again, never fear. But you won't forget. Every time you fall in love it will be because something in the man reminds you of him."
"Mother, he asked me to be with him for the night. Should I have gone?"
"There are two truths," said Katie finally. "As a mother, I say it would have been a terrible thing for a girl to sleep with a stranger--a man she had known less than forty-eight hours. Horrible things might have happened to you. Your whole life might have been ruined. As your mother, I tell you the truth."
"But as a woman..." she hesitated. "I will tell you the truth as a woman. It would have been a very beautiful thing. Because there is only one you love that way".
There is something that I know. He will be in that room in our very wrought-iron black bed, on our very light brown flowered sheets under our very yellow cabbage rose-patterned with her, with another her, someday he will be, soon or not, lovingly or not, consequentially or not, habitually or not, to replace me or not, but he will think of me as he hovers above her or lies next to her or moves behind her as he kisses her neck and he will think, then, at that moment, when he moves to whisper "I love you" out of habit and realizes what happened to make it her and not me. He will wonder that, and he will know, because I know, we both do, and if I knew him better, I could tell you whether he will dismiss it and continue with someone else in our room with the forest green carpet, with her, or will dismiss it and stop, or will let it consume him and stop, and think, and cry. I do not know what he will do, or, I daresay, what he is currently doing. What he has done. I hope for the sacredness of our time together that he has done the last, but I also hope for the meaninglessness of our time together that he has done the first instead, pushing me away from his mind and my body away from his as his is close and heating to someone else's, for their time together, someone seamless and dimpled with hope who is his new stranger, a new stranger to be something for, for a time. Someone to touch, someone to caress, someone to cup and hold and brace with and move against who is not me. Not we. And later, he will repeat the process. Make the next her the new former her, or the former me. Please, God, let Andy take care of a permanent her. Let him keep someone.
There is another thing I know. I will be in another room, somewhere, in some kind of something with someone, the one I will love, who will love me, and as we are something close to each other, as we become we, I will remember him. I will remember Andy and our everlasting hours of closeness. They will be closed in their cupboard, it will be closed from now until that moment, at which it will open, and I will stand on the brink of our room for that moment--I will stare into our room, wonderously, tearfully, worshipfully, and I will reminisce. I will take moments to drown myself in that room, to breathe its scent, to feel the carpet with my toes as I climb into our bed, to pull the cabbage-rosed quilt over my shoulders, to feel his back in front of me as I nestle, for the last time, into the space between his shoulder blades, with my arm wrapped around him and hand over his heart. I will kiss the back of his neck, some tears will fall warmly and uncontrollably out of my eyes, I will squeeze him, and then I will get up. I will put my clothes back on, I will sit on the side of the bed, smooth his beard a little, kiss him, and he will lingeringly hold to the tips of my fingers until I have pulled completely away from the bed and walked back out the door, never to revisit him in my memory there again. I will shut that cupboard forever and return to the man I love, who loves me, who I will never leave again, even for a milisecond, for the boy who lives in a cupboard.