Two and One

2

0

1

0

Twenty

And ten.

Two

And one.

Adding up to three.

You

Her

And me.

Me came early,

And you just in time. . .

But you couldn’t stay.

Your heart pulled away,

And left mine with all the weight to carry.

Two zero one zero.

The heaviness of that year still aches

In my memory.

A dead

Weight.

I languished over our death

While you left

And met

Her.

I let go

And five months was all it took

For you to live again.

Timing is everything, it seems.

But time has erased nothing.

Time has bored

Into my skin each passing year…

One

Two

Three…

And now four.

You

This weight

This scar

Lives in my bones,

And I was but a scratch on your surface.

Ten and twenty

The number of days I anticipated it would take

To get you out of my system.

The hurt wasn’t the worst.

It was more.

It was deep,

But not deeply felt.

For months I dwelt

On the unfairness of the hand

I was dealt.

Yelled

Cried

Screamed

Kicked,

Because what was more unfair

Than you never loving,

Never wanting,

Was the grief that I had to bear.

I resented its presence most of all.

So I left it,

Like you did me,

Like I did you.

And it has found me here,

In a year

Too far removed

From there.

Two

And none

One

And four.

Here I sit,

Bringing you back…

Doing what I should have done before.

Resolution for No Resolutions

How many times have we all made promises to ourselves that we weren't able to keep?  Even just on a daily basis.  We promise ourselves that "tomorrow, I'll clean the kitchen" or "I will do the laundry!", or in my case, "I will work on my paper due in x number of days!"  Sometimes we follow through, but most times, we fail.  So why would resolutions for the new year be any different?  How is the start of a new year different from the start of a new week, or a new day?  This doesn't mean that the new year can't be significant in its own way, but it's also more of a question of how it will be significant.  It's not about resolution(s), it's about intention(s).

Two years ago today, I decided to give my room a good cleaning.  My way of starting out the new year fresh.  I opened the windows, changed the sheets on my bed, put things in their proper places (or at least in a drawer where they could be dealt with "later"), and did it all to the sound of old timey 1920s jazz coming from my clock radio (thank you, NPR!).  One of the very last spaces I tackled was my bookcase.

Besides my sacred collection of books that I hardly ever read, my bookcase also served as an altar of sorts.  No, I didn't make offerings or kneel before it, but the articles and objects held a special significance, or so I thought.  Candles of different sizes and scents, an incense burner, an oil diffuser, wooden carvings and small figurines, all found their way to the space somehow.  I held onto them for so long that I stopped contemplating the reasons for their existence.  

In my cleaning, I decided to remove everything to give the space a good dusting.  After I had scraped away as much caked up dust and candle wax as possible, I started to put things back in their place.  But then I hit a snag: I couldn't remember where it all went!  I decided to rearrange them instead, which wasn't a foreign concept in this case.  However, I found that even this was a daunting task.  There was so much stuff, and it was hard to figure out where it all should go.   So, I started from scratch.  I pulled everything off again, then chose the pieces that spoke the most to me, the ones that I was drawn to.  There was no logic involved, just feeling.  As I went through this process, I realized that what I wanted instead was more space, more room to see and interact with everything, not more things to interact with.  There was a feeling of lightness and openness in this act of letting go.  And from this feeling came the idea of what I wanted in the new year.

I had long given up on new years' resolutions.  I, like many, failed to complete what I had set out to do.  So, each year, it was "I resolve to make no resolutions."  (Ironically, the following day, 1-1-12, I resolved that I was going to buy and learn how to play the ukulele.  I managed to follow through with the first half of it at least.  But that's another story.)  But as I was reorganizing my altar, a new idea came through: what if, each year, I chose a theme or an intention rather than a resolution?  It wouldn't necessarily be something that I would have to keep in mind every day, but it would be something that informed how I looked at the life I was living.  In this particular instance, it came to me almost without thinking: Create space.  This notion of "creating space" was not unfamiliar to me, as it was often used in the yoga classes I attended at the time.  There was frequent talk of "creating space" within the body for the breath to move; "creating space" in the mind; "creating space" for emotions long buried to come through.  The theme fit perfectly, much like the objects that I chose to remain on my altar.

Throughout that year, I found the theme arising on its own, showing itself to me in various ways: letting go of relationships, letting go of a job that had not suited me for a long time, cleaning out my physical space, letting go of ideas of how my future would play out, and so on.  I created space for the good things to come through, for the surprises to come in (some in more pleasant ways than others).  It wasn't always easy, but it proved useful.  I was able to let go of the life, and the people, that I knew, and embark on a new adventure all the way across the country.  It allowed me to immerse myself in a new life: a graduate program, new friends, new experiences...

So, because this idea of a theme for the year worked so well the first time, I gave it another try this past year.  This time, it was similar to the first, but different in its own way.  I chose "Recreate".  But the result wasn't the same as the last time.  I didn't notice how the theme of re-creation came to play in my life.  I even forgot what the theme was for a while.  But, looking back, I can see some places where it did arise.  I re-created the vision of what relationships should look like.  I re-created the version of myself that I thought I knew.  I re-created my perceptions of others.  I did this all unconsciously, and that's fine with me.  Maybe that's what needed to happen.

Which brings us to this year.  I think, a lot of times, resolutions are about trying to achieve our highest self.  We need to stop smoking, stop drinking so much or altogether, enrich our minds, enrich our relationships, take care of our bodies, etc.  But instead of phrasing it in terms of "need" or "should", why not look at it from another perspective?  Why not see these goals, these attempts, as a way to express and experience love for ourselves?  I don't mean this in a solipsist sense, and I certainly don't encourage the self-indulgent mindset that seems to permeate our culture.  I mean real love.  Love that challenges, pushes, but is also compassionate and forgiving.  Love which understands limits, but is limitless in its abundance.  

It is with this in mind that I have decided on my theme for the new year: Self-love.  My intention is to examine my words, my actions, my ideas, and my relationships through this lens.  Instead of setting a weight loss goal, I'll ask myself if the choices I am making are showing love to my body.  Instead of setting the goal of a certain number of dates, or even becoming involved in a relationship, I will ask if the people I involve myself with show the care and respect for me that I deserve to show myself.  Instead of berating myself for not studying harder, I will ask if my procrastination served a purpose, or if my actions were in line with the larger goals I have for myself.  

Resolutions are about strict and formulaic goals, but themes are about perspectives and looking to the road ahead.  Intention isn't about what we do, but how we look at what we do.  Intentions and themes inform our lives, and can subsequently enrich them.  In the end there isn't the same sense of accomplishment that may come from a resolution, but instead a sense of deeper knowledge of the self.  It is more subtle in its expression, but also more deeply felt. 

We shall see how the theme for this year plays out.  I may even post an update or two.  Until then, happy new year.         

        

Still

Your story
Our story
Came up
As a surprise conversation.
I revisited dusty corners
That I had thought were clean;
Opened boxes of
Faded pictures of memory that still
Held some color of recognition,
That still
Let me know
That still
This loss has been left ungrieved.
I have held you
Locked safe
In a deep well
Of still water,
Drawing you up from time to time,
But without all the pain.
Without the still sinking feeling of regret.
But it waited for me,
Still,
Like some stalking predator,
Lying still
In the grass, waiting
For some movement,
Some sign
That now is ripe,
Now is time
For the stillness
To be broken.
My lips formed the words
In fits and starts,
And my breath, slow and steady,
Pushed them away,
Even though I knew that still
The wound that still stung
Like it had been born yesterday
Bled from beneath that still
Surface.
Still pools formed in my eyes,
And the rivers flowed
Like tears.
The you that was still
In me
Became real again,
Even though I knew
It was still a lie
To believe that what once was dead
Could still live.
I still have a shred of your ghost,
Which I fear will meet the real you someday.
And all will be lost.
All which was hidden will be revealed,
All which was closed will open,
All that has lived, that has survived,
Will die.
It will hit me with the cold
Weight of time,
And I will stand still
Waiting for it all to begin
Its end.
And yet,
I still know that even as
I fear it,
I still wait for that day.
Still not knowing why.
Still knowing that when your face meets mine
You will see that I am
Still...
Yes.

Through the Eyes of Others

When I was about five or six, I asked my dad when the world changed from black and white to color.  Without a blink, he replied, "Twenty minutes into 'The Wizard of Oz'."  This has since become a favorite family story, but I remember the reason I had asked.  Looking through old family photos, quite a few of them were only in black and white.  So, to my child brain, it made sense that what the camera captured was how things actually were (i.e. the world had no color), and that things had eventually changed after a certain period of time.  Even now, when looking at old photographs or film, it is difficult for me to remember that the world was not in black and white even then.  Still, somehow the lack of color makes everything seem so much more interesting.  I find myself drawn in to this world of lives long gone, but still captured in this delightful, and sometimes haunting, medium.

Recently, while walking through my West Philly neighborhood, I came across a vintage sale.  Not a garage sale, but a "vintage" sale, meaning that these items were of actual value as opposed to what you might come across at an average garage or yard sale.  Or at least, that's what it was supposed to seem like.  Among the treasures were an "Adam and Eve" jigsaw puzzle, complete with nude male and female figures on either side; a holographic picture of Jesus; a large set of small field glasses ($5 each); c.d.s from obscure bands; and two shallow boxes full of mostly black and white photographs.  It was the latter which interested me, and I spent a good thirty minutes looking through them.  I came out with 46 photographs.  46 mainly black and white photographs ranging from portraits, family photos, landscapes, architecture, and postcards.  All for the reasonable price of $12.

The dates of these photos ranged from the late 1800s to the early/mid 1960s.  And for one reason or another, they left me feeling...enchanted.  But even that I don't feel is the right word.  Not quite.  If there was a word for feeling a longing to know someone else's story, to know their name, to know what they cared about, whom they loved, what they were like...that was the feeling I had when looking at these photos.  The same could similarly be said for the landscape photos: where was this taken?  Does it still look even remotely like this, or has it all been taken over by concrete and shopping malls?  Who lived in that house?  Was this taken on vacation somewhere?  On and on.  The longing to be where the photographer stood, to know what they knew, to know their subjects.  This inexplicable and insatiable curiosity is what led me to carry these 46 photographs home.

I arranged them on my glass topped coffee table.  Below is a partial view.

I could not stop peering into their faces, wondering who they were.  For some of them even, wondering if they were still alive, or had living relatives who would be interested in obtaining their photographs.  (The people who sold them to me originally said they had gotten them from estate and yard sales.  It's possible they were left behind, forgotten in a box somewhere, only to be turned out to anyone willing to pick them up.)

As I looked through them, I was surprised to find that a few turned out to be little pieces of a puzzle long forgotten.  A postcard dated in 1910 showed two houses, one with an "x" in front.  The writing on the back indicated to the reader that it had been the house that she (the addressee) and the addressee's mother had been born in.  Another postcard, with no date and no message, showed a family of seven standing in front of a house decked out in American flag regalia.  Upon closer examination, it turned out to be the house marked in the first card.  And finally, a postcard featuring the stern face of a young woman contained a rather stream of consciousness message to her brother.  The addressee had the same last name as the one on the first card. Three postcards, all connected but still giving no full picture of the lives once lived.  The rest, like some pieces of history, is pure speculation.  Still, they are pieces, however small, however fragile, of something that was once whole, of something that once mattered, however brief.

The first postcard.  The message reads: "The house marked with a cross is where you and your momma were born.  Love on your sixth month birthday.  Lovingly, Grandma and Grandpa"

Sister's stream of consciousness message to her brother: "Dear Brother, You are to guess who sends this as I will not sign any name a man took it when I was here last summer I did not know it at the time he is cook walk [illegible] here and gave it me today I am a little [illegible] but can't help that now."




I wish I had something more profound to share, more mysteries to unlock.  But for now, all I have are small pieces that I don't know what to do with.  With the exception of a photograph or two with an actual name attached to them, it appears that the owners of these photos will remain forever unknown.  Maybe the more damaged photos can be digitally restored, but other than that, they're in danger of being forgotten in a box somewhere.  For now, I can only share some of what I have found, hoping that you, the reader, will find a similar fascination for the lives of others.

                                                 
                                                               A beauty from 1924.
                                           

                         

         My favorite out of all of them, and the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.  

This one carried no date, but was probably taken in 

the 1930s/1940s, though possibly earlier.  

   I at first thought this was a bride (because of the veil), 

but then remembered that bridesmaids wore veils, too, in the 50s and early 60s.

This little girl with her sweet smile was one of my favorites.  Her expression is innocent and playful, and I couldn't help but be drawn to her.  (And look at that curly brown hair!)

 Unknown gentleman, but may be related to 

the Badgley family (of the postcard pieces).

Two brothers, taken in Jerusalem in April 1954.  Inscription on the back reads: 

"Uriel Kitrow 3 3/4 years; David Kitrow 8 1/2 months"

                                          Looks like there was more than one Mayflower...                                      

  Who doesn't love a picture with nuns in it?

I was drawn to this one because of the girl in the middle.  

You can't see it too well, but her eyes are cast down, like she's deep in thought.  

Or it could have just been sunny that day.

I couldn't help but love the expression on her face, not to mention her pose.  

Girl was a diva and she knew it!

Old cars and snow.  Most likely in the middle half of the second 

decade, 20th century.

Cute dancing couple.

Beautiful grandma.

1920s friends.

1950s couple.  (Prom?)  Just look at the skirt on that dress!

Inscription on back reads: Jan 11, 1958: Taren Bakkey & Herbey Makas 

at my aunt [sic] house in Long Branch

Only Connect...

Connection is a funny thing.  It can pounce on you as you turn a corner, or take off running down the path as it eludes your grasp.  It's something that can happen when we don't want it (or at least aren't expecting it), and leave a heavy hole of absence when we want it most.  The latter can be painful, but when the former reminds you of the latter, it's worse.

A little over 48 hours ago, I went to a gathering at Golden Gate Park called Off the Grid.  It's a once a week gathering of select food trucks and outdoor seating.  Prices are slightly high, and the chairs aren't the most comfortable, but you pay for the lively setting as much as the food.  It's like a concrete picnic.  Almost everyone is part of a group, or at least a couple.  Kids, dogs, families, friends...it's all there.  The new priest at my parish has successfully been able to encourage members of our congregation to attend this gathering once a month, and it was this small group that I was meeting up with.

While I was walking there I had a premonition, though I was unaware of it at the time.  I had a sort of daydream/vision that while at the gathering, someone attempted to take my purse off of me.  I tried to fight them off, but instead I ended up getting shot.  I didn't die, but I bled profusely.  It was at this point in the vision when I brushed it off.  "Dramatic much?" I thought to myself.  I was convinced my brain was overreacting.  It's been known to happen, though there is usually an external cue that triggers it.  This time there wasn't one.  Or at least, none that I could physically see.

A few minutes later, I found my group, grabbed my food, along with my chair, and got ready to dive into food truck gluttony.  I was seated next to a woman that I barely knew (I hardly ever saw her at church), and she started talking to me about all of the wonderful things that she was finding out about the City: cafes, musical and comedy performances, etc.  I sat and chewed more than listened.  And then the bullet found me.

"Oh," she said, "And I just met this wonderful young opera singer, Margaret Holstead*.  She just graduated from the Conservatory and was having a yard sale.  She had all of these wonderful records, I just couldn't believe it!"   (*Name has been changed to protect the privacy of those unknowingly involved...and to prevent any self incrimination.)

The first name immediately caught my attention.  Though common, the fact that her name was paired up with opera and the Conservatory struck a familiar chord (as it were).  But the last name didn't match.  I knew of a Margaret Gardner* who had studied opera at the Conservatory.  To explain how I knew, I have to go back two years.  Because that's when I met him.

Mark Finnigan*.  We only dated for two weeks, but during those two weeks was when I came the closest to getting what I wanted, as far as romantic relationships are concerned.  I felt as if I had met my childhood best friend at the age of 26.  I won't go into details, but it all ended because he felt that he wasn't ready to get involved with anyone.  I was left broken hearted, but resolved to continue in my search for someone who was ready to connect with me.  Surely, if I had found him, it wouldn't be hard to find someone else.  But I couldn't get him out of my mind, and, try as I might, I couldn't come close to connecting with anyone as well as I did with him.  There really was something different about him that I had never had before or since.  We tried to be friends, but on my end, it was all on the unspoken pretense that he still wasn't ready for anything romantic.  I guess I held it in my mind that maybe when he was ready, we could pick up where we left off.  I soon learned to never tell yourself something about the future when it involves someone else.

He didn't lie, but he wasn't exactly honest, either.  He had rejoined the dating website we had met on, and I only later found out that he had done so before we had reconnected.  He withheld this from me, and it wasn't until I revisited my message inbox on the site did I notice his profile was back up.  Two weeks of silence after this discovery, I decided it was best to end things.  No one can really be friends with someone they want to be with--but who doesn't want to be with them--no matter how much they might wish it otherwise.  I had tried on at least three previous occasions, and all I ever got from it wasn't worth having, much less keeping.

So the pain and broken heart were revisited much sooner than I had hoped, but I again resolved to move forward.  More difficult to do are the things that are only said.  I never quite got over my loss, for reasons I won't go into here.  Suffice to say, the pain did subside significantly, though it took longer than originally anticipated, but the memory and longing remained clear.  The desire to connect with him in some way--usually indirectly--would crop up unexpectedly, so I used the only tool that I knew of where I could  seemingly satiate my desire anonymously.  (Sometimes I think whoever invented Google must have made a deal with the Devil that included all of our souls.)  And it was while I was on one of my ill advised searches for connection that I found out about his relationship with Margaret.  A picture was enough of a confirmation--I didn't need to see the words.

But this time, at the gathering of the food trucks, the words would paint the picture for me and I was forced to look.

"I'm sorry," I said to my new acquaintance, "but do you mean Margaret Gardner?"

"Oh yes!  That's right.  I got the names mixed up for some reason.  Yes, that's her.  She's a lovely girl."  I began to inquire more information, just to be sure it was the same person.  It was, and what's more, my food truck companion offered more information than I had asked.

"She lives very near here, actually.  Just over the hill.  She and her boyfriend."

"Oh."  Bang.  Zip!  Please excuse me.  I'm so sorry about the mess, really.  It's just that I don't have any control over my circulatory system.  It just kinda keeps on pumping, even if there's a leak.  I'm sure it'll stop soon, though...you really do have to wait these things out.

The woman with the undesired connection to the one I still desired kept up her pace down her winding path of monologue, but I had since fallen behind.  I made the half-hearted sounds of someone who was trying to show that they were listening, but who really didn't have the energy to be that convincing.  I could feel the bullet still lodged somewhere between my heart and my belly and I started to think that it might help if I walked around a bit.  I managed to use the cold air as an excuse to get my blood flowing again, and I headed off in a direction that would hopefully help me escape what had already found me.

I'll spare you the internal drama, and the events immediately proceeding my foray into friendly fire.  I'm sure if you've gotten this far, and have had similar experiences, you are quite capable of imagining for yourself what happens when old wounds are reopened.  All that's left to talk about is now--the present--and the gifts that came when I decided to stay there.

Twenty four hours or so after, the bleeding had subsided, but the pain remained.  I had talked, corresponded, and slept for dreamless spurts, and it was time to start moving again.  But instead of moving away from it, I decided to move with and through it.  What better way to start the process than a trip to the gym?

I walked there, as I usually do, as a warm up before getting on the treadmill (saves time and the fresh air usually does me good).  Admittedly, I was still lost in thoughts about future encounters that would probably never happen, when a piercing cry stopped me in my tracks.  Above the noise of the busy traffic, it sounded almost like a bird call but without the confidence.  Eyes scanning the fence by the dog park, I managed to pick out a tiny ball of grey fluff.  There was no sign of the mother cat or any siblings.  This little guy was all alone and very frightened when I approached him.  After a minute's contemplation, I decided that he was either ferral and/or his mother was sure to come back for him at some point, and to continue on to my destination; but after I was finished, I planned to come back and check on him and decide from there what to do.

****

Circuit training has become the custom routine for me lately (as opposed to just rotating on the machines), and today it was ball walls and bar lunges with a lap in between sets.  (By the way, I love saying ball walls.)  Ball walls (ha!) consists of squatting while holding a medicine ball, and then tossing it up high at the wall.  On its way down, you get back into the squat position only to catch it and release it again.  Bar lunges involve holding a weighted bar above your head while you lunge across the floor, trying to get your back knee as close to the ground as you can before going back up.  It wasn't until my second set of these that my shoulders started to ache halfway across the floor.  As I walked the lap after my set, a little voice in my head said, "Hurts to hold all that pain up there, huh?"  Softly, I nodded. 

"But what else am I supposed to do?" I asked.

"Let it hold you," it replied.  I didn't like the sound of that.  To me, that was threatening.  It incited the idea that I would lose myself, lose my way and never return.  But I knew the Voice was right.  I finished my lap and came back to the medicine ball.

"Now," the Voice continued, "I want you to think of that ball as your pain.  Toss it up and let it come back to you, and be ready to receive it when it does."  My spiritual gut groaned and a lump developed in my throat, but I did what I was told.  What I realized as I did it was that there is this rhythm that we can have with pain and disappointment: there's a time to grieve, and a time for letting go and setting the pain free, only to know that we are not entirely done with it yet (and it is not done with us).  The trick is to be ready to receive it when it comes falling back in the gravity of human drama.  We have to hold it, and let it hold us, before moving away from it again.  It's the cosmic see-saw and tug of war.

As for the next round of lunges, my shoulders ached, but I tried to connect to the pain rather than power through it.  I allowed it to be there and even invited it deeper into my body.  I may not have been in perfect form, but the clouds in my mind were clearing and I was starting to feel normal again.  I was so relieved from my workout that I almost forgot about my little friend in the weeds by the dog park.

****

The closer I got to the fence where I last saw him, I strained to hear his little cries.  None came, and I thought that maybe his mother (or even an owner) had indeed found him.  I soon saw his still little body right where I left him.  His eyes were closed, but he was still breathing.  I called to him and he slowly opened his eyes.  Putting a couple of fingers through the fence, I attempted to get him to come to me, but he didn't budge.  His sharp mews were escaping from his little body, but they seemed to say, "Leave me alone!"  I decided it was probably for the best and turned to go.  But his mews continued and hit my heart like tiny sharp arrows.  I couldn't leave him.

Twenty minutes of being curled up in my sweatshirt later, I had the little guy in my room, set up in a large microwave box lined with towels.  I had no food to give him, and initially his mews persisted.  He managed to calm down while I put in a call to Animal Care and Control.  The dispatcher told me there was no guarantee that they could be out anytime soon, and that was a problem for me since I needed to leave within two hours and no one else was going to be home from what I knew.  I decided to chance it and follow through with my original plans and hope for the best.

They came by when I was still out, and little Oliver (as I decided to name him) was still in his box, snoozing, when I got home--a can of wet food in hand.  Thankfully, he lapped up his serving, and I pondered what to do next.  I called Control back, but they said they couldn't get anyone out there until the following day.  I was going to be out all day, and I had no idea if anyone else would be home while I was gone.  Fortunately, before I had left earlier, a friend had seen my post on Facebook about my new find and had inquired if I needed help in taking care of him.  I called my friend back and we made arrangements for him to swing by and pick up Oliver within the next couple of hours.

It was during that space of time that I began to reflect on all that had happened in the last 48 hours.  In a correspondence with my priest, she encouraged me to discern what I was meant to learn from the painful experience I had encountered.  "Something new is about to be born," she said, referring to my upcoming move across the country to go into a Masters program. "So it may be that this is the final letting go?  Or something else."  In my reply, I said I really didn't know for sure what the lesson or message was.  It could very well have been a wake up call to finally let go and move on, or it could have been a way for me to know that he and I are still connected somehow (however painful that connection might feel).

As I sat on my bed with Oliver crawling around me (and sometimes sitting still long enough for me to show him some physical affection), I started to think that maybe it wasn't a coincidence that I found him when I did.  Here was this new life, so fragile and in need of care and protection.  His present was a fractured series of events, and his future was uncertain.  This was the representation of my life ahead of me, and it came in the form of an absolutely adorable mewing grey ball of fur.  It was then that I realized that while my connection with Mark certainly mattered in the past--and might still matter in some small way now--my focus needed to be on the life that lay out before me: exciting, unknown, and absolutely terrifying.  I need to embrace that future and all the feelings that come with it as much as I embraced the tiny kitten in my sweatshirt on a walk home on a windy day, never forgetting that the first step before the embrace is the openness for connection, the bending at the knees to catch the ball as it falls, and trusting the pain just enough to hold me before I'm ready to let go.     

P.S. Here's that little representation that I mentioned.

                                                                       

  

The Pact

"I don't understand," he said in exasperation.  "What is...THIS?  This connection between us that just leaves me feeling empty and full of longing, but I feel like I can't live without it?  I don't even know if I can understand...or how to explain..."

She looked at him deeply, her eyes steady yet searching, like a beacon looking out to sea.  "I think I know," she said at last.  She paused again before launching into her story.  "It's because...when we were younger...seven, maybe eight, I had this tree house.  We spent almost every day there together.  Just us.  And we'd stay there for hours.  I can't remember how many times Mom had to drive you home because it was after dark."  She went on.  "One day, we made a pact.  We swore that we would never forget it, cross our hearts, hope to die..."

"Fifty needles in my eye if I lie?" he finished.

"Yes," she continued, her face still blank, her eyes still searching, like she was reading a page from an ancient text.  "And then, I left.  I moved away and the tree house rotted from its abandonment.  And now, almost twenty years later, we met again as strangers.  We had forgotten, but not completely.  Something still remained.

"That is the tension you sense," she explained.  "We are remembering that we have forgotten.  And while we cannot fully remember, we can't fully forget."  She had finished speaking, but her eyes still held his.

He drew back from her, as if trying to escape the knife that had already sunk into him.  All of what she had said was a lie, of course.  There had been no tree house, no pact. They had never met until only a few years before.  All of it had been random chance.

Still, he knew that every word she spoke was true.

With Without

**originally written 9/12/09**

Why is it that the idea of being with you
Scares me more than being without you?
What kind of sane person chooses that?!
It's like I chose what was behind door #1:
The certainty of emptiness,
A black hole for a spotlight,
The solidity, the beautiful, concrete solidity
Of nothingness.
Because I couldn't handle the storm tossed seas
Behind door #3.
Wave after terrible wave,
Crashing
Crushing
My little boat of a body,
Making me feel like the only reason
I was drowning was because I never learned how to swim.
And door #2?
The straight jacket of you?
Forget it!
Can't live
Can't breathe
Can't move
Cuz I'm too scared that if I do
I'll lose a drop
A breath
A word
Of you.
No freedom versus the freedom of nothing. . .
Hmmm. . .
It's safer here in the quiet without the sound
Of my boots knocking---
No reference implied
To what you'd want to do with me on a Saturday night.
It's safer with the pain of knowing I'm alone with
Nothingness
Than knowing I'll have nothing for the pain
That'll come to spill my guts---
Open me up so far in
And forgive all of my sins---
Maybe.
Maybe.
Maybe, baby.
That terrible word of "maybe."
A gray zone of uncertainty.
Not light
Not dark.
Pre-dawn fog
Still not sure if it wants to lift
The filmy veil of night.
Maybe means waiting.
An eye of the hurricane,
A loosening of a strap---
A prison
In its own writing of the word.
Bye baby maybe.
Hello. . .
Nobody.
Eeny
Meeny
Miny
Mo,
I choose. . .
This.
. . . . . .
What a way to go.