formative influences

i had just started dating This Guy, when he suddenly dropped his lead. i didn't quite get it at first. i couldn't think of anything i'd done--how could he reject me without logical grounds? naturally, i talked to his friends before i talked to him. but the point of his continued absence eventually made itself evident.

still, i wanted to hear him say it. so i told him, "i still have your book. come up and get it." when we were in my room, i looked him in the eye and, cutting right to the heart of the matter, i asked him,

"do you not want to kiss me anymore?"

his shoulders hunched, his chin lowered, and he looked back at me with the caught-but-you-can't-prove-anything look of a little boy standing next to a broken vase.

"i don't particularly want to, or not want to," quoth the prevaricating bastard.

i remember feeling a little bit sorry for him, but also impatient. i also remember thinking, "what's wrong with you? you were such a confident man up till now. at least be confident about why you don't want to be with me anymore."

though i don't remember verbatim what was said next, i do remember that i was honest--a rare feat of courage. and that he said he didn't want to be in a relationship that year. and that i told him i wasn't trying to argue him into it, but i liked being with him.

the only other quotation i remember was his saying,

"well, what did you want out of it?" It being the noncommittal pseudo-relationship we'd had, up to that point.

to me, the question made no sense. what did i want out of it? i had never thought in those terms, not once. i hadn't gone looking for a relationship with anyone; if anything, i had planned on not having one that year, too. but i liked being around him--he made me feel sexy, and reckless. being around him made all the crazy things i wanted seem possible. he lived in such a way as whatever he wanted, he went out and took; i liked being close to that.

what did i want out of it? as if i'd counted the minutes that i invested with him, balancing them against the probability of a return. as if the time i'd spent with him was like the time we spend waiting for the waitress to bring the food we've ordered. as if he thought i'd been putting him through a test and he was defending himself from failing it. so strange, when for me the whole experience had been nothing more than an intoxicating draught of freedom.

but not quite freedom, i guess. because after that night, throughout days and months without him, i felt like all the crazy things i wanted were only crazy. taking what i wanted left me alone in trying to enjoy it. feeling sexy made me nothing more than a candle smoldering in a hallway.

what did i want out of it? i answered him, after a moment,

"a close friend."

it seemed ridiculous, when it came out of my mouth. true, but ridiculous. because, as he responded, "that wasn't what was happening." that was true, too. i hadn't noticed, because i had so enjoyed becoming who i really wanted to be. and, as i discovered, i wasn't brave enough to do it alone.

letters

dear J.M.,

there are certain situations, or settings--whatever you want to call them--that unfailingly remind me of you.

two nights ago was one of them: i'd just come home from running, it was nearly sunset and a little bit humid outside, my housemate was making the same kind of gorgeous and simple dinner i always associate with your house...and i guess that's what did it. suddenly i felt like i was back in annapolis, just starting another school term. the weather, the look and smell of the house, the feeling of coming home...those are all inseparable from memories of the M. house.

right now, it's about 10am on a saturday morning. it's chilly, the fog hasn't burned off yet. i took my tea into the back screened porch, wrapped myself up in a blanket, heard the birds shrilling, and this song by alexi murdoch came on...and suddenly there i was, in your living room.

i don't remember ever listening to alexi murdoch, in particular, at your house. i know there were several times i was wrapped up in a blanket there, drinking tea, on foggy weekend mornings but also on winter evenings and fall afternoons and every hour in the day, in the year.

so it's not a specific memory i'm recalling. instead it's an overall feeling that my brain, or my heart (whichever organ is responsible for these things), has given a one-to-one correspondence with you, your family, and your home. it's a feeling provoked by some combination of the following factors: candlelight, rows of old books on the shelf, the smell of lavender, a certain kind of guitar-heavy music that conjures up visions of driving through foggy mountains or migrating birds, the chill of early morning or late afternoon, and (always) the feeling of coming to rest for a while.

i love it when it shows up, this memory/sensory association that defies time or reason. my life will be so much poorer, if it ever changes.

i love you.

--bird