Loose Ends

I always knew he would never leave me. That was the kind of relationship we had; he told me things, and I believed him unquestioningly, even unsurely. For the most part, he was right and we pushed and pulled on each other for that sick and hungry self-reliance we both so desperately needed from someone. The desperation and thirst for the other person melted in the air like wax dripping freely onto the floor. So, naturally he was there to pick me up when my body felt too heavy and when too many pressures were stacked uneasily on my plate.

Looking back on that long, passionate, and hungry relationship, I can see why the pieces never quite fell into place correctly. There was always one jigsaw cut that stuck up above the rest and wasn’t exactly the right color or pattern. From there, none of these metaphorical pieces seemed to be able to free-fall into place and there was always one empty spot where a piece probably fell to the floor somewhere along the winding road of arranging this puzzle. Now, that’s not to say that this potentially completed picture couldn’t have been a beautiful and inspiring work of art, but I suppose it’s that way with many things in life—there will always be a “what if” factor.

It also is very interesting how I can come to these realizations about something that had been a part of my life throughout some of the most difficult and trying times, but only after I have removed myself completely from it. Of course, in the moment, while I had my head dunked completely under the water, I had no vision to see anything beyond what was directly in front of me; most aspirations seemed too blurred out of sight or would just take too much effort to swim to reach.

Looking back into what I was so consumed with for so many years is such an odd sensation. It’s like being entirely engulfed by a scent or a sensation not experienced for many years; that sense evoking a memory long forgotten about until that very bizarre and unpredictable moment. 

It’s funny in a not-so funny kind of way that some of my fondest and happiest moments with him are also intermixed with very painful and upsetting ones.

I remember the day after I had to paint plain white over the bright and wonderful colors on my bedroom walls. The stupid boxes messily strewn about in uneven piles and suffocating my doorway and overflowing from my closet in an unfair way. That was the night that we turned up the radio in his truck and swayed slowly, arm in arm in my driveway. Mosquitoes were nipping our exposed ankles and the sun was slipping below the horizon. It was cheesy and stupid and it was kids trying on the role of adults for an evening, just to see how it looked. 

I don’t remember the exact tune or even who sang it on that brisk night in my driveway, but I do remember it being a sad song- one with a good beat that made it easy to dance to.