SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Thursday, Jun. 18, 2009 @ 7:57 am
Again, Dave.



Dave is sailing to me, down the West coast of the island. As he nears, the weather turns muggy. I'm cold but hot, prickly.

He begins to call. Once. And then twice. Messages here and there, always manic, my Dave, accelerating towards me.

It rains in bursts. Sudden floods, then sun. He's out there in the rigging, wind all across his face. Slanting rain tears. Tanned face. Did he bring his razor?

He's taking the long way around to me, around the North end of the island. I didn't tell him how many times I passed his house without telling him.

Of course, I still love him, maybe more than anyone else because he needs it. Drifting sailboat, always. The one time that I saw him chart a course was when he discovered me. One night, eleven years ago now, in the dark loft of the cabin. Cold lake thumping the dock. He took my hand and asked me.

To think of all of the places that we met and lay down and kissed. On mountains, on lakes, in canyons, at weddings, at barbecues, in London... there we lay on a rooftop, the night hot, the Thames a black swath through the bright London night. Museums, city ravines, long winding Canadian two-lane highways.

Dave, my heart exposed, his father avoiding me.

Dave, looking at other girls, touching their long, brown hair, them pulling away. Always, always leaving Dave.

Dave, outside my window throwing rocks. Me on my bed, knees to my chest, crying. Plink, plink.

Dave, leaving flowers on my truck many years later. Who else? Of course, it was Dave.

And again, towards me he sails. And again, I let him.


Roots | Shoots