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Laura, on the other hand, craves the words of affection. She needs to hear “good girl” at least a dozen times a day. So instead of hugging her, he adjusts and starts patting her on the head, literally. And she loves that. She doesn’t like to talk as much, but she loves to perform acts of service and be commended for her service. I hope that I am making him as happy as he makes me; but it’s on him to ask me for that. Just like it’s on her to ask both him and me. And we all knows that; and we all live it.
We have other ways of communicating love, of course. He recognizes those, too. The time we spend together is quality, because how could it be otherwise? Granted, if it weren’t for his occasional stern gaze, neither laundry nor dishes would get done. It is all about focusing on the three of us, in the limited time we have available. The rest of life can wait till later. Once in a while, just to be safe, I ask them if they wants more. If he wants to be rougher. If she wants to be softer. He shrugs. “We’ll go as fast as we’ll go, and as far as we’ll go” he says. Still. He is nothing but sweet to me and Laura, as we learn each other’s bodies.
That’s unexpected from the sort of relationship we possess, but it’s certainly nice.
Why do they ease my sense of loneliness? Why am I lonely? Even when I am surrounded by people, I still feel lonely. I can be standing in the middle of a party and feel disconnected from everyone. We make a promise. I do not need love from him. I still do not, but I did not even want it back then. I would have been scared off, if he’d said he loved me. I wouldn’t have had any idea what to do with it. I did not want a romantic relationship, with commitment and “say” with regards to each other’s lives. I did not want him as a partner, by my side.I ask him, instead, if he will still be my friend, after this is all over. The fun, the playtime. He says yes. I want to believe him. She needs to hear it. And with him and with me, she earns that every day.
I told a friend once— more accurately, several friends, more than once— that because a relationship ends, does not mean it failed, or that it wasn’t “real.” Love can be fleeting, or love can last until death. It’s still love. If this is true, which I believe, than when someone marries their first love, and it falls apart, the next love is not the “real” love, but simply the next love.
I don’t know if I’ve won the game or am in some state of limbo. Life is about more than Being In A Relationship, isn’t it? I don’t “just” have David. Or Laura. I have so much more. I have my life. I have myself. I have my work and my ambitions. I have my social circles. I even have my social media persona, albeit of currently dubious value.
I know people who never “have” another person, and they don’t want to have that, either. They are happy in themselves. I envy them that strength of character— if it is a strength. It may simply be a personal preference. I cannot envy someone for being something I am not. We’re all different people. There’s no value judgment on that. Maybe it will turn out that I don’t want another, too, although I still think I do.
There’sthis bit from one of my favorite stories growing up, called The Little Prince.
“How is it possible for one to own the stars?” [said the Little Prince.]
“To whom do they belong?” the businessman retorted, peevishly.
“I don’t know. To nobody.”
“Then they belong to me, because I was the first person to think of it.”
“I myself own a flower,” [said the Little Prince] as he continued his conversation with the businessman, “which I water every day. I own three volcanoes, which I clean out every week (for I also clean out the one that is extinct; one never knows). It is of some use to my volcanoes, and it is of some use to my flower, that I own them. But you are of no use to the stars . . .”
He and she are very much of use to me.
June 20,2:00pm
I haven’t givenmuch of a care to the future. I’m blissfully happy now, letting myself spiral into whatever this is. I am Mary Poppins, lifted and dropped down by the winds that guide her. I am Alice in Wonderland, falling headlong down the rabbit hole. I can only hope there is something at the bottom to catch me. I have no intention, nor ability, to slow down. I love fairytales, the true, old stories. The dark and foreboding ones. Oftentimes with heavy consequences.
I don’t know what consequences our relationship will have, though. I feel that he is the one protecting us against the consequences that life brings. He modulates against my anxiety, my spinning out of control, even as he is the one doing the spinning. He comforts Laura from her trauma, even though she has not chosen to share the particular with us. “Yet,” he says. “She will when she’s ready.”
Okay, so yes, we don’t always get along perfectly. People fight. They disagree. They don’t tear each other down and belittle each other’s hopes and dreams— but they argue. It’s part of life. I’m blessed to have a relationship that can take all the good, even for a short time. That is unusual. I’ve tried, too. You would think this would be easy to find, but I’ve tried time and time again for a lovely, short term relationship…and ended up failing over and over. Either the person wanted more than I did; or they wanted less. They would ask me to stay (forever?), or they would disappear within a few nights. If I was lucky, I’d get a break up text.
The nagging feeling in the back of my mind knows that what I’ve stumbled into with David and Laura can’t be sustained. Eventually we’ll have to figure something out. Whatever that something is. But does that have to be today? Can I just enjoy this for now, without thinking about what it “means”?
* * *
22
Kitten Corrupted
People don’t always remember what has happened very well. History may be real, but how we recall it is rather ill defined. But I find we all remember how we felt with a person. Whether they made us feel good, stressed, jubilant, terrified. We remember the feelings.
Thinking back on my own memories, I remember the adventures. But I don’t remember what I did or where I went. I recall feeling exciting and important, or, alternatively reflective and peaceful. I recall feeling serene, road-tripping with my dad and listening to James Taylor. Oh, I remember we collected these little blue and white china figurines. I suppose that counts as remembering a detail.
I also remember feeling productive when my mom did little crafty things with my sister and I, although I couldn’t name a single project we did together (we must have done puzzles together? I know we did when I was older). My mother was not always available for me, emotionally or otherwise, but she did her best. I know she did. I remember feeling sophisticated watching some old movie together. I remember feeling so happy when my sister was born and I got to be the big sister. You don’t get a lot of chances to be “big” as a kid, but you always love when it happens.
And when we do remember specifics from our past? It isn’t always what one might think is “important.” It’s funny, because the munchkins have quite a good memory for specific details. But it’s not details that adults think they’d remember. The oldest remember the stupid little fairy houses we built together out of twigs and leaves and stones. They all remember that time I took them to a frozen yogurt shop and the park and climbed trees. I wonder if they remember being so tired walking home that I had to carry them. But why worry about those details?
But I also know they, too, remember feelings. They were too young to remember what I did with them when they were very little, but they treat me in a way that says they remember I was kind and loving. That I’ve messed up along the way, but, overall, they have a good sense about me. It shines from within in the way they look at me, talk with me, play with me. How they run to me if I cry out in pain and make sure I’m okay and give me ice packs.
I hope the feelings stay with them, even if all the memories fade. Because I always want them to remember that I loved them and will always love them.
The rest, well, the devil is in the details, right?
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