Whatever he said, it sounded great at the time.
“Did you steal that from someone?” I asked. “Because if not, I’m going to steal it from you.”
“It’s all mine,” he said. “I thought you might like it.”
And though I did, at the time, very much, I didn’t take good enough notes. My brain relegated the phrase, the feeling, the sense of having stumbled on something so utterly good to inaccessible memory. Sometimes stories get lost along the way. Sometimes, we lose them on purpose.
Over the years, I’ve learned to give way, grudgingly, to what is needed most: an alarm-free morning, a snack before dinner, even 15 minutes with a pad of paper and a pen. On a rain-soaked evening, I sequestered myself at a café with Bach unaccompanied cello in my earbuds, the syrupy pull of bow on string enough to wring out everything that needed to be left there before resuming my evening with an open mind.
We are the regional jets lined up at the small airport. We taxi on short runways and lift off into questionable weather. We take glimpses East across the country on the approach to Western destinations, and we bear the buffeting of turbulence harder than the other planes. We land over circles and squares and spindly trees. We see you from up here. We want to get home just as badly as you do.
The message came just before mid-day—a passive explanation of why we would no longer see each other. I left the office immediately, retreated to a soaring sanctuary where I could sit and cry unnoticed. The sun filtered down from the ceiling and striped the wooden pews.
I lit a candle for the girl who had started to fall in love, who had, in just a few short weeks, put more of herself out there than she had in years. The candle sputtered and lit, a beacon to the resilience I’ve fostered with blistered hands.
She let the globe rest under her palm, dreaming of where she might go if given the opportunity. Once, she dreamt of Spain. Once, he said he’d take her there.
It’s not that great there anyway, said her friend as they packed her things. You’ll find new destinations now.
Though she tried to keep away, she kept waking in the night right next to him, her leg against his. This betrayal angered her, and some nights, kept her from sleep entirely. In the morning, she rolled away gently, hoping to slip from the bed before he woke. He never had really known how to touch her, anyway. She was one train whistle away from escape.
The way she stood, it looked as if she sang the moon. Thoughtful light rose from her lips, and for a moment, it was as if she was solely responsible for the coolly cast shadows of the trees. He held his breath, wondering if he could hold all of it together. But moons rise and girls close their mouths, then run through the woods, spilling laughter as they go.
100 Proof 