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Begin here. I set my thermostat to 82 degrees, and listen to my daughter breathe at night.
It is an odd thing to miss you. The stillness that I feel inside myself has a quality that I cannot name. Now it’s bitter. Now it’s sweet. The taste is all iron and cardamom deep inside my mouth.
It’s been a strange year.
All summer long, I drank and drank. And drank. Thirsty Thursdays on the Blue Ox patio; other nights, too. Just going further and further down. Farther and farther away from my own reflection.
And there was sweat and sex and sometimes pills or pot and I was indestructible all summer long; untouchable. Unreachable.
Then – you driving; lights in the rearview mirror and I kept saying it in my head: “this can’t be happening. We can’t get caught. We never get caught.”
I’m glad we did.
I came awake slow inches at a time. One piece here. One there.
Vulnerability does not agree with me. It narrows my eyes and furrows my brow; tightens my lips.
Throughout the fall and into winter I learned to let go; to trust; to breathe.
After 3 years – 2 of celibacy, 1 of cheap sex and brief entanglements – love seems like a foreign country in which I am slowly learning how to live; still shocked by the beauty of the pulsing landscape all around me.