Clare and I discuss ideas that some people have died for. The thought of a perfect world, where one didn’t have to chose between food or gasoline. Eating from your garden. Picking sweet peas and bell peppers and putting them in your salad. Laughing with your best friends. Not having to compete with them for a job that will underpay and overwork you. Revolution is the thing that everyone wants but is so monumental that no one will die for it anymore. All the revolutionaries are dead.
Our three-car garage is filled with artifacts that would either show our love or our contempt for each other. Which artifact would you throw into the dumpster?
I heard that the self-storage industry is doing remarkably well.
Why is it that we cannot enjoy the moment? We either cling desperately to our past or we hurl ourselves into the future.
Why don’t we know ourselves? We fear who we might be, so we refuse to give up who we were or strive to be what we might become.
I found a lump. I thought I was too young, but there it is--quite visible. It is in the shape of contempt. Anger. Indignation. I thought I could easily forgive, but here I am struggling to not yell while throwing red bricks at the blue sky. Four years and you deny it meant anything. A waste of time? I am still reeling from that--from your wall, from your words, from your ability to sweep away what I thought you might have understood, but had hidden. I am currently unable to cope with the way I feel about the way part of me died when I left you. How has anyone coped with such burning anger and unanswered questions? How has anyone found a way to wade through such hurt?
I told Clare that I suppose this is how a tree feels when it has been pared. It must feel very unnatural at first, what with sap running over its bark and all. But I have started to grow. My old heartwood was exposed and now new shoots are beginning to bud. It is Spring, isn’t it?
Some may wonder if my loving him so soon is such a good idea. But, you see, I’m going to offer you a few reasons why it is.
I love who he is. Rough around the edges. Intelligent. Possessing a native intelligence that rivals my own (while I am in my neck of the woods). Strong and confident. Thoughtful and intuitive.
He knows I am still wounded. Yet, he allows me to love. This love is not a salve, it is not a band-aid, it is not a fix-a-flat (though I did once flatline). This love is hope.
I have to hope that I am able to fully love again. And I have to hope that there is someone in this world would can take my love for what I want it to be: a gift, a gem, a wooden heart-shaped puzzle box that I want him to unlock.
Good thing he loves puzzles.
