(no subject)
It was August when I met her, and it is August now. All the ups and downs between, I can hardly tell apart in memories that come back when I'm driving the streets of Harford, the meter clicking, strangers in the back seat.
Meeting her at that moment was the worst choice I made all year. I was looking so hard for things I thought I needed, I stared straight through her. She was shy until I mentioned art; I was confident until I realized I missed her when I didn't see her often. She looked straight at me when I spoke, and I usually looked away. I always felt that what I had to say wasn't funny enough or wise enough. Now it's obvious, it wasn't laughter or wisdom she was looking for
Fast forward 8 years: it is the day of her wedding, this is also in August. White will be white. Blue, blue. Tulips across her arm, I am sadder than I've ever been and someone says in a toast that this is the most important day of her life. I stare at him for too long, it is August, every part of me is cold, and I am sure that the very moment all the raised glasses touch, her life will start anew like they say. And I think it shouldn't be that easy.
Go forward another number of years: it is Memorial Day in Atlanta. I don't know how old we are, but colors are bright and there is a parade. There are children running and they are not mine but they could be, and something about her standing next to me makes me love them. She stands quietly beside me, sunlit Main street in the morning, and I love her too. Nothing could be simpler.
Now I am 200 years old. I am sitting here next to her, I am meeting the most important people in her life, children and grandchildren and in-laws. I am sitting on carpetted stairs eating her potato casserole, saying it's good but not tasting it at all. I notice the places around her eyes where her skin has not wrinkled, how beautiful those places are. Nothing is clearer. How everything around you seems to change, but when you check again in a few years, it's all exactly how you remembered it.
I met her in August, and it is August now. Someone has told me not to rush the seasons, but I insist that I want it to be spring, spring with Tulips. Some Mondays she wakes up and checks the calender. "Another week.." is all she says, as she turns on the radio show. And I want to marry her, I want to carry her, I want to kiss her because I've never heard sadder words than those.
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I read this over right away, which i normally dont, but cant sleep. so i know that it is in many ways cliche--if not for love-writing in general, than certainly for MY writing, or something like that. and yet in some ways it feels more like me than things written in the past year, both posted and not.
i guess what i mean is that ..writing this this way made me really sad, or that i wrote this this way because i was really sad, and not being able to tell which came first is what writing used to mean to me. yeah, that.