Thursday, Jan. 05, 2006 @ 2:40 pm
I deleted the pictures.
Staring at my computer screen. Gone. The weekend in Deception Pass. The New Year turning over and me and Daniel sleeping in a dome of nylon, gunshots ringing through the forest at midnight. Trees swirling above, winds whipping up over the ridge.
An owl hunted at dusk, screeching an eerie pursuit. I shivered, pulled closer to the boot-licking fire. Safe by the fire, safe by Daniel, warmdryhappycampfire, this.is.it.
Pictures gone: mushrooms, forest paths, him on the shore, us in the rain, the geometrics of the bridge, our campsite, the steel water tap on the walk to the bathroom. And a series of Daniel, softly lit in my cottage kitchen, the progression of the effects of a bottle of Pinot Noir. Face softens, body leans into the wall, hands gesture more freely. The bottle on the table decreases in volume to empty.
I can let them go, the pictures. They are still in my head. The wind-swept gusts of rain atop Goose Bluff, arbutus twisting from rocky cliffs above the Puget Sound, a reflected evening sky on Cranberry Lake.
To be taken care of? Yes, it is a part of love. We stand beside each other looking into a hollowed pit in the forests of Belcarra. History. Oil tank? Septic tank? Pioneer's cabin? Story upon story, as to why that rectagular-shaped excavation exists. There are bricks! Dig a brick from the dirt, is there a date stamped on it? It is this multiplication of brains, this addition of neurons, that generates a mind more fascinating than just one alone.
While we have yet to discuss the cause, effect or existence of love, either between us or in general, this has proven to be the most rewarding relationship of my life.