If you were here (or I were there), I would tell you I love you. This profound wave of the unconditional that I can neither explain nor support. I love the fact of your existence and that love becomes a joyful tracing of movement. The way you lean a skateboard back and forth down the sidewalk. I love your mismatched clothes and the jerking movements of your imperfect limbs. I love your tired smile and your tired jokes and your tired isolation. I love you because you do not know I love you. And if I told you, instead of believing that perhaps I leave a trail of barely perceptible affection like the scent of twilight, you wouldn’t accept it. Or you would and I would forget how to offer. The way words forget what it means to love. The unknown with a whole heart.
If you’ll forgive me, I don’t quite feel like talking. If you were here (or I were there), we would sit in silence and be grateful. Perhaps we would hold hands, but maybe not. The gestures of strangers. I picture you laughing often. Despite what I don’t know about you.
My summer has begun. Summers are usually a whirlwind of gorgeous insanity. I try to pack as much activity as possible into the months when everything happens in my city. When outside is the only place I want to be. It’s my time to collect experiences. And I have this habit of burning myself out. I have no reason to believe this summer will be any different. There is nothing orderly or scheduled about my brain during June, July, and August. These months are about festivals and weddings and road trips and camping. No ocean this year, but many mountains to be hiked and explored.
I’ve decided to let go and enjoy the ride. I’ve discovered the pattern of my years, and there’s no sense in fighting the seasons. I write best when the weather is cool and I have nowhere better to be than inside. I’m going to relax in the sun as much as I can while I can go outside without six layers of clothing. Since the weather is on no schedule and follows no pattern, I’m abandoning my scheduled posting for the summer, and I’m happy with that decision. I’ll still write and some of it will end up here, but I can’t be strict with myself when there’s precious sunshine to lay around in. Things might be different if I lived somewhere with more regular seasons, but we take what we can get around here, and this year, it seems to be even less than usual.
But since I’m speaking as me and not my fictionalized narrator self, I want to say thank you to everyone who reads and comments. I’m fairly bad about responding to individual comments because I’m not always sure what to say, but I read and appreciate your words and reactions. You keep me going and you make me want to write better every time.
She cannot admit that she misses him. It would perforate her larynx and puncture his inner ear. She is frustrated with the weight of phrases that should be light and uttered often. She wishes there were other words with the shape of this gap and the shade of this affection. Her tongue is ossifying with the unsaid.