SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Giving Notice - Friday, Sept. 29, 2017
Accepting Offers - Tuesday, Sept. 26, 2017
Indian/Polish Wedding - Thursday, Sept. 21, 2017
The Builder - Wednesday, Sept. 13, 2017
Rupert Part II - Sunday, Sept. 10, 2017


Tuesday, Oct. 04, 2005 @ 12:18 am
Starboat Cove



Thirteen straight hours of Daniel. Sunday, my love, the great cedars and the light rain landing on my face and hands. Starboat Cove. We climbed out onto a jutting, wave-swept rock, holding hands. Looking down to the breaking waves below: two red roses, thrashing, their petals breaking away from their perfect sanguine blooms. Looking back to the grassy cliff above, three figures dressed in black, all standing away from each other. Faces wet with tears not rain. We retreat back across a slippery log propped up to be a bridge. Holding hands tightly. What we stumbled upon, stumbled falling over ashes still blowing up from the surf, coating our lungs, invisible bits of love energy connecting the three of hearts on the cliff to the two of roses tumbling in the sea. And us accidently in the middle.

In slow motion he reaches for my hand across the small wooden table. I press my leg against the radiator to try to warm up, a baby shrieks at the next table and wonderful smells mingle, the bread and the soup and the spices. He holds onto my hand with posession, determination. I can't believe this is happening.

In an old apartment, two cats play with a dry brown leaf. Mark smokes a cigar out the window, rain dripping from the eaves to the grass. They talk, old friends, and I feel Mark's eyes on me. Sidelong glances. Daniel pulls me near him on the couch, unashamed of showing affection for me.

Conversation eventually leads to him and me. What is happening? I told him how earlier I was unsure if he was interested. He describes his new approach to dating - to form a deep friendship, to assess the real reasons for wanting to spend time with a person, before falling headlong into something physical. It is refreshing and healthy and I cannot hold back the thoughts that this is going to go somewhere.

Here we go again...


My journal at age 10


Roots | Shoots