Tuesday, Apr. 13, 2021 @ 12:09 am
Counting on Forever
For two days, I feel manic. I can’t sit still. I can’t focus. I forget to eat. I rush from one thing to the next. I don’t sleep. I can’t stop talking about all of the things that I’m thinking about. The mania lasts so long that I begin to wonder if I have become bipolar.
Eventually, on the third day, the world begins to move less quickly around me.
Then there are several days of deep grief. I sit in my apartment and am so very sad. I love this place intensely. The green leaves forming up on the weeping birch. The birds' persistent sing-song in the morning. The crows gathering nesting material. The group of school children that pass by mid-morning wearing gym strip, all shouts and banter.
The in-between times are often the most challenging. Not solidly in one place or another.
I sell my kitchen table and as a result eat supper standing where the table used to be, chopsticks skewed in one hand, a bowl of noodles balanced on the other.
There is a week of sorting out the details. Insurance. Joint bank account. Movers. Boxes. The internet connection. Cohabitation agreement. I push through it all, bearing the resurfacing memories of the last time. This time things will be different.
The pandemic continues, heating up to a peaky third wave right when I’d figured we’d be in the clear. The ennui of a winter without socializing leads us to a series of reckless, though sanctioned, gatherings. A drunken evening around a firepit in the backyard of a mansion in the British Properties, cedars towering overhead, the air humid and rich. The vacant neighbourhood eerily silent. A weekend camping sharing a campsite with another couple, and again, drunken evenings around a fire. Paddling up Howe Sound and the sea urchins grazing on algae and the sun so golden and the landscape so magical I cannot believe that it’s real. A long cycling day with another couple, touring around the harbour, over one bridge, then another, looping back to end with a resplendent picnic on the lawn during golden hour. The hangovers and the sunburns and the deepening of the creases on my face for all of the laughing. I’m awkward as hell, and I don’t care because it feels so good to see real life human beings.
And the one human being with whom I can be with indoors, the one whose flesh I can touch, kiss, lean into. Sometimes I see him smile and laugh about something and my heart catches. The sun across his bare chest in bed in the morning, how attractive he is to me when he is reading a book. There is still exploring, learning, between our bodies. There is still desire.
“I’ve decided that I’m not going to store everything just in case things don’t work out. I’m going to be reckless and let it all go.”
“Well if it helps you at all,” he says, “I am counting on forever.”