The world is coming to her end and I cannot find the words to write. Such a momentous occasion and me with the nerve to finally make a toast. With nothing left to hide, not even fear. But, alas! Where are the words?!
Sometimes lately it feels like I was waiting for her to get to where I've always been. Yearning, like me. Ready, like me. Walking by the lake, but on the yellow line. Like me, talking to the moon. There's no one here but us. It's utterly revelatory. And I am madly in love.
Last month I sold the house. I'd moved out months ago and there was a sting in it, but the stress and the worry stood like misplaced furniture and boxes filled with personal treasure but blocking access to what I most needed- grief. And then it came. I returned alone to drop off the other set of keys, my set.
Until that house, I've moved nearly every year. I had two three year stretches but mostly I move. So I've never grown attached to a place. Or a structure. But this was different. I was safe and did the hard work in that house. In every way I wouldn't trade it for anything. And yet I did.
I wrote to C while I waited for the realtor. Exceptions abound, in moments of profound angst or loss, wherein we can speak straight from the heart. Rare treat and I imbibed. And there was in the end an anointing quality - whether of selling the place, the moving on, the rather blunt expression of emotion - to walking through the fires.
I find I don't care much for the posturing any more. What is the point of any of it if you have to keep tucked in and buttoned up?
The world is coming to her end, and I hold out my arm. She laces hers through mine and says 'I wasn't sure you'd still be here.'
