i have been saved, it appears. not by some dude in a white robe and a long beard, but by a man who knows not of the power he possesses over my heart, over my mind, over every atom and inch of my being which i choose to give. i won’t give it all, but i’m willing to part with most of it.
we met for the first time in 3 trips around the sun. it was like picking up the best book you’ve ever read and putting it down, only to return to it later and find that its luster sustained through the years, that the characters are just as vivacious, the desire to turn page after page after page is not only strong, but importunately weighted upon your fingertips like anchors on the fins of fish.
i relish this moment. i look into this man’s eyes and he sees me. he looks into me like no one has, and in this moment of stillness i feel whirled into the stars at a million miles an hour, my heart races, i swallow, i glance downward, i am moved.
we checked into our hotel room – the ultimate bow to tie onto this weekend: one bed, or two? he goes with one. a king. it’s that kind of getaway.
we look coyly at the bed, throw our stuff down, and head out the door to imbibe, take the edge off, reconnect. we walk to Magazine street and duck into a small pub. bruce springsteen rocks the jukebox and i tell him “bruce is my favorite” and he tells me we can “agree to disagree” and we toss back a few more (and by a few i mean a few) and proceed next door for mexican grub and conversation and i’m still so nervous i can barely form sentences.
we return to the hotel room. we do what two people who haven’t seen each other in three years do in a hotel room. and it was spectacular. we lay in bed and stare at each other, falling asleep as the birds begin to rouse, as the sun begins to peek through the blinds. my face hurts from smiling.
in the morning we make our way to the St. Charles Cafe as finely dressed families filter in and out to the sounds of live guitar music, celebrating Mother’s Day. the city is slow today, i am in no hurry. cheesy grits, bacon, black coffee, he palms at my hands. this is it.
we filter in and out of the crescent city, talking of things that matter, things that don’t. he rolls cigarettes with his fingers as we walk, i take pictures of trees and wax poetically on Faulkner, Welty, Andrew Jackson. we edge the curbs to avoid panhandlers, admire the squared balconies of the French Quarter, laden with ivy, moss, low-hanging ferns and centuries of city sludge. he holds my hand, our arms extended fully, a perfect fit, palm to palm ambling along the cobblestones.
we admire drakes quacking about the lakes of Martin Luther King, Jr. Park. “Why is this place so empty?” he asks. “Beats me, it’s beautiful”. we spot a kingfisher, steadfast and unmoved at the edge of a lake, eying his next meal.
we are everywhere we’re supposed to be, we are becoming who we should. we are together in this moment. it’s fucking perfect, nothing like i would imagine, for imagining leads to the ultimate doom of expectation, unrealized dreams, disappointment. for this man, i will not travel to that land, because i would go anywhere else to be with him.
we sit on a bench in City Park, beneath the fern-drenched boughs of Live Oaks. “If I wasn’t wearing a skirt, I would lay down and put my head in your lap” I say. “You can do that anyway.” he replies.
i comes time to leave. we hold hands. we hold each other’s faces. i look into blue eyes, he brown. this is one of he best weekends of my life, aside from the one we shared together, when i first met you, nearly 5 years ago. it’s meant to be this way again. it might be meant to be this way forever.
but that’s forever away. and for now, we’ll have phone conversations, witty banter, letters and thoughts and smiles and a thin white string running from wherever i am, to wherever you are.