I was thinking about the adage that friends and lovers “speak the same language.” I don’t know if that’s true. It seems more like everyone speaks their own dialect, and there’s this constant act of translation happening in relationships.

Sometimes you develop a shorthand—gestures, glances, the small vernaculars of shared time. (I rarely have to explain a particular phrase or feeling to my brother / he knows more of my emotional world than anyone else). But even then, you’re guessing.

Sometimes I think I’ve said exactly what I mean, only to be met with confusion – or worse, agreement that doesn’t feel right. I used to think this was a failure of my own communication. Now I wonder if it’s just how it goes. Language is so very personal and frankly, I don’t think anyone ever really knows what another person means when they speak.

Still, we use language as though it weren’t deeply private. As though meaning were a shared resource. This is either a form of hope or a kind of delusion. Probably both.

Even in love—especially in love—language performs a double trick. It draws us close, then reminds us how far apart we are. You say “I’m fine,” and I hear “I’m leaving.” I say “I love you,” and you ask if something’s wrong. Still, we try.

I am restless. I am acutely aware that all good things end and having an awful time trying to forget this. 

I am certain that good people do bad things. (“Good” people. “Bad” things.) and so I have a hard time believing this will be any different. Maybe that is not the point though.

For all the bad there was with M, there was so much good. I won’t change it for anything in the world. The happiest days of my life were in Greece.

I should note that this is just one data point. Data point is generous. It’s really an anecdote from memory, reconstructed each time it is played. But it shoots down the street like a blaring ambulance and drowns out every conversation. I know you were good, and I know you were bad. And I know you are just a human. So I can’t really be mad. I know this pain is inevitable and any and all time I have spent avoiding it does not serve me. There is no good in the world without bad.

But my mind does not like reason. My mind likes memory. I tend to the rug and the way it was pulled out from under my chair like a farmer raising their crops. I am meticulous in my routine. 

I wonder if you think of me at all. I certainly do of you. It’s fleeting and probably my stubborn memory more than anything else. 

It seems ridiculous to me that you could know someone so well and love them so entirely and unconditionally and still lose them in this world. So we are all just trusting our hearts to individuals we will likely lose. That seems beserk

We’ve been talking about moving out of the apartment. There’s no longer a need for a family home. Arianna moves forward in Miami. James traces his steps in Montreal.

I listen to Weird Goodbyes by the Bleachers and think about the times I have reminded myself to remember before it is gone. The first time I was at summer away camp for the first time. Chateaguay. I remember very little from that summer but this one moment. We are boarding the bus, taking in the field for the last time. The counselor says to take a mental snapshot, we won’t see this until next summer. I never did see it again but in my memory. The field is very green. The Bleachers: Memorize the bath water, memorize the air; there’ll come a time I want to know I was here.

J’croyais que d’être seul en exil
Me donnerait un peu d’élégance
P’t’être que j’suis encore trop fragile,
J’crois que j’ai perdu mon assurance