The cloud has been lifted.
Wandering listless and seemingly lost in the bureaucratic noise created by simply wanting to be together is behind us now. This predicament can perhaps be blamed on past transgressions of individuals cutting corners hence necessitating security measures that spiraled and became this new convoluted system.
Nevertheless, they matter so little now. It is done.
In wading through the swampy quagmire between the work and patience needed to be together and the many long nights spent wishing things were a little easier, quicker; we only had time to trust. Trust that each day predictably passing is another chance to snip what keeps us apart: time and a few thousand miles.
It wasn’t an easy road. It was long and bumpy – but is there anything worth it that isn’t?
I’ve been told that romance, while playing a huge role during courtship, takes a backseat as the other ingredients needed for lasting partnerships take the wheel: grit, dogged persistence, and commitment. We got a small taste of all that while we worked with the time-space constraints. And inevitably more down the road.
No matter, let me take this moment to be unconditionally satisfied.
It took a lot from us, sure, but this is where we are now;
the several months later that movies conveniently skip, the bleakness to certainty that now characterize our whens, whats, and hows.
We have arrived.
Darkening, Then Brightening
The sky keeps lying to the farmhouse,
lining up its heavy clouds
above the blue table umbrella,
then launching them over the river.
And the day feels hopeless
until it notices a few trees
dropping delicately their white petals
on the grass beside the birdhouse
perched on its wooden post,
the blinking fledglings stuffed inside
like clothes in a tiny suitcase. At first
you wandered lonely through the yard
and it was no help knowing Wordsworth
felt the same, but then Whitman
comforted you a little, and you saw
the grass as uncut hair, yearning
for the product to make it shine.
Now you lie on the couch beneath the skylight,
the sky starting to come clean,
mixing its cocktail of sadness and dazzle,
a deluge and then a digging out
and then enough time for one more
dance or kiss before it starts again,
darkening, then brightening.
You listen to the tall wooden clock
in the kitchen: its pendulum clicks
back and forth all day, and it chimes
with a pure sound, every hour on the hour,
though it always mistakes the hour.