SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Moving - Friday, May. 29, 2020
For Dangerspouse - Thursday, May. 28, 2020
Two Hearts, One Bicycle - Monday, May. 25, 2020
Penny Lane - Friday, May. 22, 2020
Climbing, Again - Monday, May. 18, 2020


Friday, May. 29, 2020 @ 9:31 am
Moving



He gets the keys to his new apartment.

At sunset, I cycle to his new place with a bottle of French wine and a round of Welsh cheese. We sit on camping chairs in the empty living room, drink the wine, and gaze out at the sun sinking towards the horizon. The ocean busy with boats and paddlers. The lawns of the park resplendent with small gatherings.

He turns on some music, and I stand up and move the chairs down into the hallway.

We dance on the bare hardwood, the glass door to the deck flung wide open. Up on the ninth floor, gulls wheel and ride on the air currents.

We are not moving in together. At least, not yet.

I’m proud of myself for holding my own, for knowing that I need my own space for a while longer. I ached and ached with the decision, knowing that I could, with one brief phrase, change the entire conversation and join him to look for a space for the two of us. But now is not the time. I will know when I am ready.

“One day,” he says, his arms around me as we look out at the view, “we will have a place together overlooking the park.”


Roots | Shoots