"It's too cold for angels to fly"

      I'm lying on the floor of my living room. Staring up at the white ceiling. Listening to the lyrics filling up the room, taking tiny bites out of my heart. Words like barracudas.

String

      She was standing in front of the bookcase, reaching for a book, and then the pain hit her out of nowhere, knocking her to her knees. One hand braced her, her fingers splayed on the hardwood floor, and the other clutched at her heart, trying desperately to ease the tightening of the string tied around it. She pulled at it, but that only seemed to make it cut deeper into the beating flesh.

      The air passed through her lips in small, unsteady breaths. She closed her eyes and begged: "Please. Please. Make it stop."

      And then she tipped herself forward, setting her forehead on the floor, one hand still held to her heart.

*      *      *

      At the same moment, across the country, he was washing his face in the bathroom sink, half-dressed for bed, tired after a long day. He had just grabbed a towel when suddenly he doubled over. He steadied himself against the edge of the bathtub, momentarily disoriented. The pain wasn't in his head, as it usually was, instead in his heart. And that's when he felt the old pull.

      He forgot about it most days, but just because it wasn't always on his mind didn't mean it wasn't still there. He wrapped his fingers around the string, trying to draw it out of his heart, where it was anchored.

      But it was no use. He had tried a hundred times before and it was no use.

      "I can't," he whispered, closing his eyes. "You know I can't."

*      *      *

      "Cut it," she begged, her lips barely moving through the pain.

      She had eased herself all the way down on the floor, laying on her right side, both hands at her chest. She cradled the pain like a child, holding it gently, seeing his face in the blood that dripped through her fingers.

      "It hurts too much."

      But she knew. She had tried, herself, to cut the string a thousand times before. Nothing worked -- nothing would break it or snap it -- not knives or scissors. They had even traveled part way around the world, sometimes in opposite directions, but even the distance wouldn't snap the string the joined them.

*      *      *

      "I can't," he whispered again, pulling himself up from the tub and leaning against the sink. He tilted his head back, forcing his eyes open to stare at the ceiling. "And even if I could...I wouldn't."

*      *      *

      Her right hand balled into a fist and she hit the floor with it, a single blow, like a hammer falling. A shiver seemed to run up the bones in her arm, but it barely distracted her from the other pain.

      "I know," she said, loosening her grip on both heart and string.

      Once free, the organ beat erratically a few times before resuming a steady rhythm, the pain somehow growing fainter though she swore her heart was swelling back to its normal size, the string gradually giving way to it.

      "I miss you."

*      *      *

      He put a hand up to the side of the mirror, reaching out toward his own reflection as if he was somehow reaching out to her.

      "I miss you, too."

*      *      *

      "I wish it didn't always have to be like this," she said.

      She was able to stand then, pulling herself up slowly, holding on to the shelves. She couldn't even remember what book she had been looking for. It didn't seem to matter anymore. She tugged idly at the string, as if to test it, to be sure the pain had truly passed. The string went taut in her hands and then slack again, her heartbeat steady all the while.

      She let out a long sigh, her shoulders, which had hunched themselves involuntarily, slumping forward in relief.

      For a moment, the string vibrated in her hand as she held it. It pulsed, not in rhythm with her own heartbeat, but with his. She could feel his body heat in the room. She could almost smell him, freshly showered.

      And in the silence she heard his voice, close to her ear, a whisper.

      "Good night."

      She brought the string to her lips and said, "Good night" back, knowing he would hear it across the miles. In her head she said I still love you and she hoped he heard that, too.

"Who breathed your breaths and thought your thoughts and willed your life to live?"

22 January 2009
Washington, DC

[Unsent]


Dear Long Lost.

      I wish there was a way to explain the hurt to you. Trust me, I believe that you don’t mean it, I have to believe that. After all, the only people I’ve ever really hurt in my life have been those I was trying not to. That’s the worst hurt, isn’t it? But I just don’t understand why you can’t tell me.

      Who else do you think knows every part of you? Who else saw you cry? Who held you tight, who held you close, who stroked your hair and promised things would be okay? Who else sat with you in midnight hours, Long Lost? Who else refused to sleep until you slept? Who refused to eat until you ate? Who breathed your breaths and thought your thoughts and willed your life to live?

      I know every part of you, and yet you would keep this from me? You would break the last promise you ever made me in good faith? I can’t help but wonder what I’ve done to warrant your mistrust (if that’s even what it is). Was there something more I could have done? Something more I could have given? But looking around I see nothing: you already have it all. So I sit here writing letters, wondering why?

      Have pity on me, Long Lost. Have pity.

Beseeching, with love,
      --

Yellow tulips used to be my favorite

      I was in the grocery store the other day and I saw that they had put the tulips out. I looked at the yellows and purples and reds and I think I closed my eyes.

      Nine years ago, on Valentine's Day, I got a box from you. A big one. And inside were three dozen tulips, one of each color, carefully bundled and packaged. I had vases, of course, but nothing that could handle that kind of volume. I remember going to the store and buying a glass pitcher with a wide mouth and even then I had to sort of cram the last few in.

      They lasted for weeks, almost unnaturally long, sitting on my desk in front of the window. A constant source of pleasure. And not just the flowers themselves, nor even that they came from you. It was because you had known that I wanted them. And at that point in our lives, you liked to give me whatever I wanted. I have no idea why, but you did.

      Thank you. For the flowers and for giving me so many things that I wanted.

Silks & Lace & Second Skins

      I'm feeling very fashion-minded lately. It's not that I'm unaware of how I dress or carry myself (I'm incredibly conscious of both), just that I'm thinking about it more. Some people brush fashion off as frivolous. An idle pastime for idle women, perhaps. But I couldn't disagree more. Sure, some women may collect expensive handbags for a hobby, but I approach my wardrobe like any metaphor. It's saying so much more than what's on the surface, but you have to carefully craft that surface so that people can figure out what's being said underneath it.

      So the question is, What does my wardrobe say about me? It says a lot of things, depending on the day. What I think I need now, more than ever, is a unifying theme for the one-way conversation my wardrobe is having with the rest of the world, from people in my office to people on the street to my closest family and friends.

      Here are some inspiration points I've found while searching for my unifying theme:

I'm digging the Marian the Librarian blouse from Lace Affair. This kind of soft, feminine blouse is so stylish right now, especially with a pencil skirt in a modern color (think cobalt, jade, cotton candy pink). I sometimes worry about having large bows close to my face, but this one is artful enough that I think I'd be okay, and it's offset by the slightly puffed sleeves. Too bad they're out of my size, otherwise I'd be snapping this up.

This navy number by Heartbreaker also caught my eye. It's buttoned-up enough for the office, but seamlessly transitions to date night. The neckline gives it class and sophistication and the fitted waist and hip give it sass. What's not to love?

And now what about this one? I can't imagine ever being as beautiful and stylish as Jamie Beck. This Amelia Earhart inspired outfit is just one example of her shining sense of fashion. But the other thing to remember is that you can't just roll out of bed and look this amazing. It pretty much has to be your job...

"Because it's full of your dreams"

18 January 2009
Washington, DC

[Unsent]


Dear Long Lost.

      I spent a few hours tonight editing Southern Cross and smiling to myself. It brought back so many of our little memories together. Do you remember that Murano bottle stop I bought you in Italy? Isn’t it funny how such a small thing could inspire such a big story? You don’t even know about Southern Cross, or at least not by that name. It’s the story I told you about; the one where I turn you into a piece of fiction. I can still remember you saying that you liked the way that sounded.

      It’s the story of what might have been, and it’s full of your dreams and Sonoma’s soil. That’s why I love it so much. Not because it has you in it, nor because I get to imagine different lives for us, but because it’s full of your dreams, and especially Sonoma’s soil. Can’t you close your eyes and feel it? The sun beating down on those rows of grapes? Can’t you see the winery in all its rustic oak and glory? I swear, it’s as real to me as any other place I’ve been. I know it like the back of my hand, too. I only hope that one day I can truly share it with you. And have you understand.

      You used to be so good at understanding.

I rest my head in your hands,
      --

Reflections on Seventeen (I)

      Ten years ago, I was seventeen years old. But while my birthday was in August, I don't think I really turned seventeen until that January. I don't know why -- the first few months just felt like sixteen still, I guess. I more than made up for it though. I was seventeen for three years.

      Seventeen was the first time I was able to hold two contradictory emotions in my heart at the same time. I was so unsure of everything, so untrusting, and yet at the very same time, I believed in one thing with all of my being. And that was that the Long Lost would always love me.

      It's crazy, isn't it? Love can be so transient, people so faithless, and yet there I was. So sure. So beautifully, heartbreakingly sure. Sure that he would always be there. Sure that I would always have him. I never contemplated any other possibility because I couldn't. It was beyond even my own overactive imagination. The suggestion was as laughable as the Earth ceasing to spin, and to me, equally impossible.

      I was wondering tonight when the exact moment was that I stopped being seventeen. I think it was a couple weeks before my twenty-first birthday. And I'm not sure...not sure if the he loved me anymore at that point.

      Maybe he did. Things got a little better after all, but better wasn't the same. Better wasn't seventeen. It was different. Older. Harder. Completely uncertain. I wanted it that way back then. I don't know why -- maybe I thought it was exciting to be so unsure.

      I miss it now. Not him, necessarily, but seventeen. That prolonged moment in time when two contrary beliefs could live side-by-side inside of me.

A love this big

      Sometimes the love I feel is so big that I'm afraid it will crush me or the world or both at once. And I have no idea how it manages to stay contained inside this cage of ribs. How it doesn't fly out into a million pieces and just as many directions.

      Tonight I am reading Mary and Kahlil's letters from the years at the heart of their love for each other.

Boston
January 1911

Yes, beloved Mary, I would like to go to the Symphony Saturday evening and hear Elman,* for I feel a strange hunger for music in these days. And it will be so good to sit in your shadow for a few minutes afterward.

Mary, beloved Mary, when you are alone, in the silence of the night, send me a breath, a little breath from your heart, and I will work better.

Good night,
Kahlil


*The violinist Mischa Elman (1891-1967)
Beloved Prophet (1972)

Time on my left wrist

      Ten years ago, I walked nonchalantly up to a boy I knew and slide the watch he was wearing off his wrist and unto my own. And I never gave it back.

One by One

      He has been haunting me lately. --The Long Lost.

      I can't seem to close my eyes without seeing his. My whole mind seems to fill with the memory of his dark hair, the tiny ones on the back of his neck. I remember his closely cut fingernails. The soft skin in the arch of his foot. White, cotton t-shirts. The bones in his ribcage or the tip of every vertebrae in his spine. When I think about it, I can almost feel precisely where each part of his body fits against mine when we're dancing. It almost feels real still.

      These are it. The scraps of him I keep. Sometimes I wonder what he keeps of me. --Maybe the way I rolled my eyes. How small my hand seemed set against his, or the way they both felt clasped around his neck. Does he remember the way I smiled when I wanted something from him? The way my nails used to drum against the desk or table or doorframe? I wonder if he remembers me in sounds -- my laughter, my sobs, my silence. I wonder if my silence had a sound for him the way his did for me.

      He has been haunting me lately, but I've been letting him. He comes and goes as he pleases in my dreams at night. This is the privilege of forgiveness, I suppose. At least it doesn't hurt anymore. Not the way it used to.

      No. It doesn't hurt.