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I had the most wonderful time with Michele this evening. We planned to have dinner across the street at Pepolino but we cooked together instead. Branzino with lemon and salt. Pasta with butter and parmesan. The carrot salad from Rigor Hill.

I feel so content with this friendship. I can speak my mind entirely around her – though there are certain things I do not say because I do not wish to upset her (and I do not think she wishes otherwise).

It’s pure happenstance. She ran into James and asked for his help moving some art. When he could not make it, he sent me instead. What ensued has been, so far, one of the greatest joys of my life.

To meet someone so entirely curious and knowledgable and honest is a true treasure. I feel lucky tonight. I am writing this solely for the sake of remembering. Oh how I hate to forget.

I learned today that rhubarb is grown in the dark. A method called forcing. It’s kept from the sun, then fed in brief bursts of candlelight. The plant, searching for an absent sun, stretches so fast you can hear it. When done right, the result is sweeter. More fragile.

Not everything needs to be an allegory. Still, I can’t help but think about certain things that shaped my formative years. I might be able to recall it with great precision had someone else been there, had I told the story out loud by now. But it’s just my mind and the brightness of the walls that were more like a hospital than a bedroom. And my hands, small and reaching, for the one thing a child wants.

Heather O’Neill, one of my mother’s favorite authors, wrote that if you want a child to love you, you should hide in a closet for three or four hours. They’ll fall to their knees. Pray you back into being. That child will make you God. “Lonely children probably wrote the Bible.”

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.

I spent our last months in this frame of mind. We drove through the city, trying to outrun the heat. The goodbye. I was afraid to speak. To touch his arm even. Remember this sign, remember this street, this home, this feeling. There were forty days on the calendar, then ten, then the day I packed my bags and left. I flew over ten states, constantly aware of the distance growing between us. But I didn’t remember it at all.

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

It’s always hard to leave a place. I know this. I know reward comes from discomfort. And yet I love this home, I love the landing, I love our skylight, I love pretending. 

It’s my first night in New York City. Under the same roof as my brother and sister. Many times over I wished for this moment. I wished for them. But oh, how I miss my yellow teddy, and that soft mattress, and the big brick house, and Anika, hug? and Alexis, I know right.

Steal my heart
Hold my hand
We’re on Decarie
Lily, this is my favorite band

Not long after
I met someone new
His childlike wonder
Reminded me of you

It didn’t take much
His white picket fence
Audrey in Lorraine
——-

Oh it didn’t take much
Green eyes on the girl in blue
Papa I saw it coming
But there wasn’t much to do

I’m older now
And you are too
You take me around the world
Papa, I met someone new

He’s mighty and quick
Devilish, I feel sick
And he’s got that same wonder
Papa, I’m in trouble

He steals my heart
He holds my hand
The truth all around us
A tight noose, a fraying band

This one I didn’t plan
But he likes your song
Even knows your band

Check under the bed
Don’t forget the lights
My swimsuit in the shower
Your promise in the night

The car is here
Don’t leave me now
I can’t see in front of me
Not even the ground

Nowhere to run
It’s time to hide
We’re from the same cloth
But cloth can be dyed