it’s all in moments

it's all in moments

two days before i boarded the plane headed to Boston, i purchased the ticket. i had to see him. it didn’t feel rushed or externally mandated by some ethereal expectation. i simply knew it was the right thing to do. so i did it.

he was in the country, briefly, to retake a certification course; thus allowing him to further demonstrate and solidify his abilities to one day, save someone’s life in a setting far, far away from everyone and everything. “i could put an IV in your arm and reset your bones” he said to me once. and my blood coursed and i thought of nothing but the tip of a needle, his hands, the comfort in it, holding steady.

and this is where he grew up. this is where he rode his bike, fell out of that tree, snuck out that window to kiss that long lost crush who is not married to _______ and lives in _______. this is where he threw that orange frisbee to that big-eared, low-profile corgi who now lounges about the floorboards, panting hazily in his decrepitude. he’s precious. a man who loves his dog is a man to which i can give my soul. one day, i will.

we drove about the naked streets of Boston round midnight, coming off of long, cross-country flights. an old golden retriever, Bella, pants next to me as his sister explains how she’s either succeeding or failing at work, i can’t quite remember the details. i’m too busy staring out the window into his crossed-car reflection to absorb much else.

we drive through Boston into Salem, and tread up the slender, steep stairs to her top floor apartment, in a building built before American history existed. We smoked a blunt, we pet her new tuxedo cat, we talked lazily of things that matter and things that don’t, we objected to her kindness of allowing us to sleep in her bed, but accepted the generosity anyway. we kissed and kissed and fell asleep next to each other, cherishing every inhale of scent, every restless tussle of limb and leg.

in the morning, we chomped duck confit and sweet potato home fries at a greasy spoon. i drank too much coffee. i faked a phone call to sneak outside for a much needed dose of nicotine. i paced and paced and worried incessantly about the impression i was giving, or not giving.

i give too many fucks about what others think. sometimes, this proves detrimental. sometimes, beneficial.

i paid for our meal, my stomach knotted with anticipation of meeting his father, which i did, twenty minutes later in the parking lot of some corporate-American monstrosity. he was blunt, straight-forward, grey-haired and arrogantly confident. he and Pete talked about skiing, skiing, mountains, skiing, as i sat silently in the cramped compartment of the little, black Ranger. much like his sister, his dad had yet to ask me one single question about me.

are they disinterested? am i that un-thought-provoking? well fuck.

fuck me not, the man finally spun around, “So, enough about this stuff. Pete’s mom made me a list of things to ask you, and i cannot disappoint her, so let’s talk about you for a second.”

yay. share time. and i did. “i went to this school, and studied this, and i’m from here, and i have this many siblings and i like this, and i work here, and i do this, and this is what my job is and i’ve been here for this long….”

he seemed interested. he seemed. i was happy to finally oblige.

and then we arrived at the home where this beautiful man grew up. a quaint New England abode, decorated neatly and flawlessly; a place for everything and everything in its place. comfortable. well lit. relaxed, but pristine.

an old corgi, greyed with old-dog dander fluff, panted on the wood floor, his little nubby legs sprawled about. this tall, tall man of mine, he kneels down and emotes totally on this little critter, coos to him, loves him; a man who does not love his dog is a man i want no part of. this moment of tenderness, rare with my tall man, gave me a deeper glimpse into a soul i already knew i wanted to keep.

his father eventually pedaled away to work on a practical bicycle. we packed a few things in his childhood bedroom. we loved each other desperately on a well worn, clean quilt and didn’t worry about cleaning up the inevitable mess. nothing felt wrong. it’s good, and natural, and necessary. flowing through each other like mercury, but stepping aside sardonically to ease the tension, the gravity of the situation.

i’ve flown more than half-way across the country to see you for three days. i like you and i mean it. i love you with every ounce of my being, but i wont be the first one to say it. we’ll reach a stalemate till the day we walk down that damn aisle.

we drove north to Franconia, a small town nestled in the piney shadows of the White Mountains. he pointed out childhood pastimes, landmarks, past landmarks, memories and maybe a few regrets, and then suddenly we were crunching up a canopied driveway to a large cabin built with logs kiln dried in the arid plains of Wyoming and grown in the dark forests of Alaska. a bird’s nest lay nestled awkwardly on top of the grill. that’s one way to do it.

he chopped wood. we investigated bedrooms. we loved each other again atop a quilt from long ago. he made a roaring fire. we gazed at the perfectly framed cloud-covered peaks through the panes of a large window. we smoked cigarettes and talked of this, and of that, and my heart settled into the mossy undergrowth, the softness of New Hampshire, the history of New England and the years and years of cabin life having been played out over the past decade. did i feel like an intruder? at first. but this piece is a component of a life i love, i life i wish to share. i accepted everything and anything and made peace with the discomfort in my innate being. i held a cigarette in my right hand, i inhaled smoke deeply into my lungs. i looked into his eyes, his blue eyes. and for that moment, my heart stood still.

we ventured to Littleton and ate dinner at an old, regal establishment, the ambiance almost unbearably quiet, but impossibly romantic. candles nestled into the vacant spots of long-ago bricks in a wall, our waitress elderly, her long grey hair flowing behind the trills of a cotton flower-printed jumper from the decade i was born. sandals and socks. mushroom tarts. frisee. white wine, red wine, one for him, one for her. white fish. fiddle-head fern fronds. white chocolate, dark chocolate.

“i can only eat a little of this. it’s just too much.”

it started to rain. a gentle rain, something soft and soothing and I fell asleep on the manicured chest of this man, twice my size who I love with all, plus a half of my heart.

he leaves the cabin at 6 to take a class in nearby Conway. i wake up alone, i toss the blankets aside, the succoring sounds of drizzle surrounding me like cotton, the faraway din of thunder beckoning me back to bed. i succumb. fuck it.

i wander through Franconia, having walked along a country highway en route. i stop in an old convenience store, buy a candy bar, talk with an experienced, rotund woman with a Boston accent so thick, you’d swear it was chowder. someone hand me a spoon, i could eat this place up in all of its charm, originality, stillness.

i go running. i weave across dirt roads, and dripping ferns, and pines as tall and as thick as a defunct republican congressman, flailing about the frothy waters of his first term. the temperature is perfect, the sun is shining, the mountains in the distance still encapsulated by low-hanging clouds, grey dapples of rain.

i come home and he’s back. i’m sweaty, i’m out of breath, i hug him and kiss him and he doesn’t care, the state i’m in. coming home to him, everything is suddenly full. what small indents remain pop out to form a smooth, flawless surface of satisfaction and fulfillment; we often don’t know what we want until we have it, what we crave until we taste it. from this point forward, i will live an unsatiated life. and i will do it gladly. i will stay hungry. fulfillment kills the drive to pursue. a huntress i shall be.

a mixed CD from high school provides background music as we stand in the kitchen, me at the stove, him at the adjacent counter, cooking together. like real couples do, real couples in normal relationships. i cook some veggie fried rice, he bakes me a carrot cake, which complies dietetically to my needs. the effort of this makes me melt. a man baking a cake for me? this is just too damn good.

the long, antique table is set beautifully. “my mom had this shipped from England to this house” he tells me.

candles are lit, we sit and eat and gaze at the sun as it disappears over the edge of the white mountains. he tells me the names of the peaks, named after our long-dead founding fathers, as can be expected in the land of “live free or die”. i’m smiling, ear to ear, and i just can’t help it.

after dinner, i walk outside to the back deck and light a cigarette, a “poor life decision” as i’ve come to call it. he joins me, rolling his own cigarette from loose leaf tobacco and the white packaged stack of zig zag papers. across the horizon, from the depths of the thick new hampshire forest, fireflies light up the night, an extension of the universe here on earth to pull us into a void of vertigo, an imbalance of the heavens here on earth.

“do you see the fireflies?” i ask, excitedly. “yeah, a few” he says. “wait till your eyes adjust, there’s a ton of em.” and he lets his eyes adjust, opening slowly to the magic surrounding us. we’re innately scared, protected humans, he and i. we keep a close watch on these hearts of ours, and it seems as if for the first time in a long time, we’re uprooting the keys, holding them in our hands, waiting for the cue to open our fingers to the sky, palms upwards, offering our keys to one another. i’ll give mine away once. all he has to do is ask for it, and it’s his.

and i’ll jump into dark water. i’ll wash myself in doubt and treasure it’s presence, its voice. the nagging sting of doubt solidifies that which is certain. he is solid wood in a world of fire and oil. he is a rooted tree in a forest of dust and slinking, black wolves. he is softness in a world of granite and bone. he is perfection in a world of smoke and mirrors. his reflection solidly rooted behind me as i stand alone, gazing into my own eyes in disbelief. love has found me. i wring my hands of it. not yet, i say. not yet.


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