Couldn't/wouldn't.

The words "don't falter" trail off somebody's lips, somewhere, as rain cuts the pavement. I try walking slowly; slower, and then some. Water streaks down wet, white cheekbones--the skinniest rivulets. It cools and also distracts. I focus on the jutting lack of warmth. It is like a salve, taking my mind off the pain that spreads behind my eyes, and the lilacs that fail to blossom, still. It kind of pisses me off, actually--the flowers, that is. They were supposed to have been here weeks ago. Lilacs always take me back to our red brick house in St. Boniface, back to the wild spray of bushes between us and our next-door neighbour's lanky home (we thought she was a witch; in reality she was just a lovely old flight attendant), back to childhood and back to that seamless happiness. Sometimes I pine for those days--almost mourning that fact they they are locked in the confines of all that was, rather than what is. Being on your own is better and also scarier than you envision it when you are a kid, yes? For me, it is. I was listening to this interview with Leonard Cohen the other day, and he made some comment along the lines of "if people go through life thinking that love is going to be easy, then they will be infinitely disappointed, but if they go through life expecting that love will be the most difficult thing, then they will be pleasantly surprised." (Although I am sure that I butchered his words), I like that. It has just the right twist of insight--not at all pretentious, and basically just honest.

Another memory lights--catches, flares and then seeps away and into the dark street. The night is impossibly late and all my body is asking for is air that refreshes. I toss an old sweater over my shoulders, the last splashes of a bottle of wine into a coffee mug (white, chipped, it says "Lover" in weird script across it), blow the cat a kiss goodbye and slip out of my apartment and into the stillness. The moon is a white layer or skin draping down, and the wind tangles itself in my lungs, sharp. I follow the string of streets towards the park, treading lightly and loosely. Up ahead, a couple is extracting their young, sleeping family from a car. They ease three children, heavy with sleep, out one by one, speaking softly to them all throughout. A boy, a girl, and then another girl (all black-haired, all tiny) emerge from the vehicle, bedraggled with tiredness. For a snap moment, the woman's eyes lock with my own, and we exchange a smile, barely there. And yet. I remember soaking in those sorts of nights as a little girl--those rare occasions where we were allowed to stay out past midnight, and I would wake up to the feeling of my dad's steady arms carrying me inside. The low voices of my parents would layer around my brother and I like liquidly warmth, and I would always pretend to still be asleep. So as not to shatter the experience; that pristine interval of seeming magic and security.

Leaving the visual of that family behind me, I continued on my way feeling almost weightless. It was a simple reminder, but a significant one. I sat curled on a park bench, mind wandering and whittling in interesting fashion until my limbs grew stiff and breath steamed white from the cold. I wove my way home dripping gratitude. If only they knew, if only you knew, if only I knew. That night, I felt the blood hot in my veins and the hammer of my chest and the dipping temperature against my skin. Thank God, because those are the times that make me hopeful (and even expectant) that all of this disjointedness actually means something. In the meantime, and in those oceans of in-between space, I will write (even if it scares me sometimes, often) and I will listen and try to find meaning and rest well and choose my words with consciousness and loosen my attitude and drink tea at all hours and read in the sunlight and just fucking know what is good for me. I am beginning to realize how much stems from basing yourself in simplicity and trying to move through everything from that place.


(light me like incense in the night/light me like a candle burning bright)

Bitter end material, for these two have been an inspiration this week (and always):
:




Tired eyes,
Rb.