the closer i am to free
"Do you think we'll miss how simple this is right now?"
Everything we need - what a powerful statement. Everything we need, we have. I'm constantly reminded of a blog post I read a few months ago that keeps rolling through my mind - we're taking the path of least resistance. Not out of laziness, but because it's right. Because when it's right, the hard stuff becomes simple, clear, zen.
And that song keeps prodding my subconscious as I write this. It's hokey, but...y'know.
I had become so accustomed to struggle; to the plate-balancing act of a life full of compounding denials and diametric oppositions. To complication. To modularity - a la carte fulfillment.
"Six months ago, if I'd gotten an e-mail like that..."
I know. Heh. See - we're forged of the same stuff, darlin'. And at the same moment that I understand exactly what you're saying (to a sort of intimate extent), I feel something rise up in me. It overasks. It overthinks. Do you miss it? Will you miss it?
"It's the bounce effect..."
Lying on new carpet, laughing, as there's Marvin Gaye and a wiggling tickly prickly chin in the cleft of my clavicle and a mostly-empty winegless perched on a TV that's still plunked on the living-room floor.
We're on your set, and you're walking away from me. I love to watch your body move - a symphony in paint-splattered shorts and a stormy-grey t-shirt that drapes over your shoulderblades and follows the triangular line of your back as you make your way through the shuffle and bustle of the working crowd. The economical, easy grace of your movement is hard to tear my eyes from, and as a breeze pushes my cotton shirt lightly against my belly I'm reminded of the first time you touched me.
Watching morning traffic, hands wrapped over big bowls of coffee, forearms marked by the edges of a cafe table that's wildly overaccessorized with ampules and dispensers and jars of condiments and toppings. A drooling lab puppy watches your chocolate muffin with greedy eyes as you take your customarily oversize bites, and I marvel at how the white-gold morning sun seems to light you from the inside. And then you're looking sideways at me, and the corners of my lips still taste like the belgian praline butter I remember from breakfasts in St. Margrethen, and I want to just get in the car and drive us to the airport. And the trials of the early morning melt, because it's just a tiny thing and it's going to be just fine and anyway, you're here. Simple.