Saturday, March 21, 2009
Last night, under the influence of phyto-estrogens, dong quai, black cohosh and vodka I let loose on Mr. Moon. I hurled words so sharp and heavy they cut his flesh into the bone. These were words that had I given them to him when they were newborn, would have been soft and tender, like baby greens newly rinsed and wrapped in linen napkins.
As it was, because I am no good at confrontation, they were like Napalm and I could hear his flesh sizzle as I hurled them.
Now me? I do this sometimes. I hold my emotions and insanities and hurts close to my heart until for some reason they insist on being voiced. Oh. I know as I say them that this is not the way to do it. That yes, they need to be said, but not like this.
Not like this.
And yet. I can't help it.
"You never..." I said.
"You don't..." I said.
"I feel..." I said.
And every time I opened my mouth, flames flew out and also denseness, like hot, heavy lava, like huge chunks of flaming meteors.
And then a friend came over to watch "the game" and I washed the dishes and he came into the kitchen and put his arms around me like a mother, like a father, like a brother, like an angel.
I went to bed and he tucked himself in, quietly beside me after the game and then got up early to go turkey hunt and by the time he came home, I was fine. It was all out, I was purged, I was clean, I was in love with him, with spring, with my life.
But he. Oh, poor thing.
We walked to the post office and he wanted to hold my hand.
"What? What? What?" he asked. "What can I do?"
At sunset time, he started up the motorcycle that we need to sell and honked the horn as I was weeding the camellia bed. I stood up and stretched and put my new weeding tool aside and opened the gate and went out to where he was, on the bike and and ready to ride down the road. I swung my leg over and figured out the pegs and wrapped my arms around him. Helmetless and jacketless and bootless (I was wearing my Crocs with the two tiny straps) we left the yard and went down the street, under the blooming dogwoods, the massive oaks with their new taffeta gowns of tiny green leaves and I trusted him with my life.
As I always do and always will.
He drove slowly and we passed cows and the creek and then, the air as cool as water on our bare arms, we turned around and came home where I had lentil soup simmering on the back burner, where we'd left the front doors open to whatever life had to offer.
I made muffins and he ate three with butter and strawberry preserves and two bowls of soup and washed the dishes.
And I am sitting here, on the back porch, tranquil as the Buddha, sitting in the dripping forest after a storm.
It's night in Lloyd.
I am with my love. And I think he is with his.