I find the map and draw a straight line
May 10, 2007
I hadn't showered since Mexico. The grime of two countries and three states stuck to my sunburned body. I sat on the rocks by the beach in San Diego, my teeth sore from grinding in my sleep, my eyes tired and puffy. Five months was too long to be apart from him. Too long too long too long. Too long. Too long. Who moves to Alaska? So far away? So damn cold? It all started to feel wrong.
We talked on the phone most of the day. I didn't care about Southern California, the San Diego beaches, the waves, or the sunny weather. I'd have rather been anywhere, just not so far, and not moving farther each day.
I wrote him a story on the back of sea shells to mail to him when I got to San Francisco. A sweet story, in black ink, on the pearly inside of black mussel shells. They stacked together to hold the story line in place.
At dinner I got a text: "Call me when you have some time. We have things to talk about."
Dinner was long, and I couldn't taste the food. Finally, nervous and nauseous, I called. It was midnight his time. He stammered through some words - I don't remember what they were - some sort of introduction that left me confused, unsure, and, well, to be honest, nearly blacking out. Finally, to my relief, he explained.
"I'm not going to California for the summer," he started, cautiously. "I'm going to back out of my job at the Zen monastery. Its not the right time." (A deep breath.) "I want to come to Alaska, to be with you."
And so, with this, our roads would come crashing back together, 127 days earlier than we'd expected. The next day there would be rushed phone calls, an interview, plans for a plane ticket in his name. We'd talk on the phone making giddy plans for our small tent in Alaska, matching jobs down the road, sun light until the sun comes up again, and rivers, mountains, and - hell - the whole world to explore. I'd mail him a packing list; I'd meet him at the airport.
But for that night, on a windy, dark, starry street in San Diego, there was just a rushing sense of relief. We cried a tear or two, and broken pieces inside us began pulling themselves back together.
I finally got off the phone, and went in to take my first shower since before we'd left Mexico with that teary - and now inapplicable - word of goodbye.
I hadn't showered since Mexico. The grime of two countries and three states stuck to my sunburned body. I sat on the rocks by the beach in San Diego, my teeth sore from grinding in my sleep, my eyes tired and puffy. Five months was too long to be apart from him. Too long too long too long. Too long. Too long. Who moves to Alaska? So far away? So damn cold? It all started to feel wrong.
We talked on the phone most of the day. I didn't care about Southern California, the San Diego beaches, the waves, or the sunny weather. I'd have rather been anywhere, just not so far, and not moving farther each day.
I wrote him a story on the back of sea shells to mail to him when I got to San Francisco. A sweet story, in black ink, on the pearly inside of black mussel shells. They stacked together to hold the story line in place.
At dinner I got a text: "Call me when you have some time. We have things to talk about."
Dinner was long, and I couldn't taste the food. Finally, nervous and nauseous, I called. It was midnight his time. He stammered through some words - I don't remember what they were - some sort of introduction that left me confused, unsure, and, well, to be honest, nearly blacking out. Finally, to my relief, he explained.
"I'm not going to California for the summer," he started, cautiously. "I'm going to back out of my job at the Zen monastery. Its not the right time." (A deep breath.) "I want to come to Alaska, to be with you."
And so, with this, our roads would come crashing back together, 127 days earlier than we'd expected. The next day there would be rushed phone calls, an interview, plans for a plane ticket in his name. We'd talk on the phone making giddy plans for our small tent in Alaska, matching jobs down the road, sun light until the sun comes up again, and rivers, mountains, and - hell - the whole world to explore. I'd mail him a packing list; I'd meet him at the airport.
But for that night, on a windy, dark, starry street in San Diego, there was just a rushing sense of relief. We cried a tear or two, and broken pieces inside us began pulling themselves back together.
I finally got off the phone, and went in to take my first shower since before we'd left Mexico with that teary - and now inapplicable - word of goodbye.