Rooted, I used to think.

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Purgatory - Sunday, Feb. 10, 2019
Day Fifteen - Saturday, Feb. 09, 2019
Day Fourteen - Saturday, Feb. 09, 2019
Day Thirteen - Thursday, Feb. 07, 2019
Atonement - Thursday, Feb. 07, 2019

Tuesday, Jul. 21, 2015 @ 11:02 am

I leave early and run around getting organized. Stuffing steelhead trout into my panniers, baguette jutting straight up. I have to swing my leg high over the back so as to not break it off.

Home and washing my face and changing my clothes. Pulling a necklace over my head, pushing thin beaded bangles onto my wrists. Grabbing my favourite soft moss green t-shirt, the one that pulls out the green in my eyes. Pinning my hair up out of face, and I totally forget about the existence of make up.

Upstairs, downstairs, doing the 10 minute power clean/tidy. It won't be perfect, but it will still look nice.

Into the kitchen with 20 minutes left for essential prep. Simmering my homemade teriyaki sauce on the stove, crumbling goat cheese into the salad, trimming the tassles from the early season local corn. Plating hummus that I'd made on Sunday, snipping a sprig of rosemary as a garnish. One olive in my mouth, and with the lingering rosemary I'm floating in the south of France, sitting on the wall of the river in Arles.

And done. Sweeping the patio when he knocks on the door.

He's taller than I remember, and his hair is at the exact length that I love on him. Golden and wispy and cowlicked like a toddler. Carefree. We walk down to lock his bike in the parkade.

Later, in the kitchen, he's slicing strawberries, and I reach over to steal a raspberry. I lean against the fridge and watch him work in my kitchen, and it's easy, and he's opening cupboards to find things, and it's like it's always been that way. I've never worked in a kitchen with anyone but D, and it feels wrong and intimate and dangerous.

I show him upstairs, and we stand on the balcony watching the steady stream of cyclists cycling around the traffic circle, talking about work and life and travel. There's a warm breeze, and he's here beside me, and his voice is familiar and comforting, and he makes me laugh.

During dinner, I secretly watch how he eats the corn.

He leaves on his bike at twilight, and I stand on the sidewalk waving goodbye. The night is warm. A breeze ruffles the leaves of the street trees. The whirr of bicycle freewheels, the snapping of chains moving through gears. His taillight blinking into the distance.

I lay awake late into the night.

Without a doubt I love him. Without a doubt, I will stand witness to his life, in whatever way happens, in whatever way makes sense. Without a doubt, I will not let him go.

Roots | Shoots