SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Summer Vacation - Friday, Jul. 08, 2022


Friday, Jul. 08, 2022 @ 5:24 pm
Summer Vacation



My manager emailed me from a mountain hamlet in Switzerland. A brief note, a check in, and a photo of a mountain landscape, the view from his hotel room. When I opened the message, a wave of hormones moved through my body. The flush of warmth, a tide of buzzing energy running the length of my spine. A dangerous thrill.

***

I hike with Marilla, a huge lumbering Newfoundlander, on a hot July morning. We travel through arbutus and fir along a forested bluff overlooking the Salish Sea. I take a right turn, and the dog stops. She looks at me. I stop and turn back, looking at her. Listen to the dog. I assess the terrain. The dog is correct - the main trail goes left where I went right. I turn and the dog moves off to lead me through the salal and ferns, and there’s a fresh little jig in her step that makes her long black fur swing like a skirt around her back legs.

***

Sunset in our apartment. He comes into the room and turns on some old jazz and takes my hand. He leads me around our dance floor. We haven’t done this in a long time. I want there to be more of this.

***

We have a number of friends over for dinner. Perhaps this is our house warming party, albeit a year late.

We serve ti’ punch with rum from Guadeloupe that was gifted to us.

The room is warm with smiles and laughter, and I am so very happy and satisfied.

***

I still have terrible dreams about Daniel.

***

This time next week I will be in Ljubljana, Slovenia, if flights and trains connect as planned.

I regret booking a trip to Slovenia and the Balkans at a time of the year prone to heat waves. A Swiss mountain hamlet seems a lot more appealing now that my own city has dried out and become oppressive with humidity and heat.

***

I used to be exhausted by socializing. I am now energized by socializing, and being alone drains me into a flat, grey depression.

This doesn’t leave much space for writing.

I miss that part of myself, the one who quietly writes about all she’s seen and felt.

Can I bring that part of myself back?

I thought about my previous trips to Europe. I would ride around on trains, sit in wicker chairs in old squares, lean against concrete promenades with my bare feet in the sand, all with small notebook and a good pen.

The Mediterranean air, all olive scent and cicada whirr.

I will close my eyes to feel it all more deeply.


Roots | Shoots