Younger of the two Sisters, a.k.a. Hurricane,
I hope it's not too cold in Michigan. I think of frosty landscapes. Big hearty meals and small town problems. I don't know if you feel trapped or if you feel at home. But you have your degree and you have your family and you have security. I'd like to think that's what you wanted. When I read about your marriage I couldn't feel happy about it within myself. But I had hoped for your happiness, even then. Now that I'm older my perspective has changed a little. Priorities have changed. I'll take the same knowledge I had when I was younger and see it manifest in a totally different way today. That's growing I guess. I hope you've learned to protect yourself against the cold.
Like a downstairs apartment in Louisiana, draped in your thighs and your silence. I don't know who was more scared: you, me, or conscience. I don't even know why we were scared. Was there anything lost or gained in the end? I was sick, and a little desperate. You were desperate, and a little sick. We drank too much and we thought too much and we circled each other like little Hamlets, too smart for our own good. We wasted time but what else could we do?
I think of you these days now that it's getting cold. Now that I'm a de facto midwesterner myself. We always did our damage in November didn't we? First November was a Southern Comfort Thanksgiving. You weren't single but we sort of knew each other. And I finally met your sister. We played card games and laughed and laughed.
Second November I kissed you and it didn't feel good. You never took well to rum. You fumbled with your keys for at least 5 minutes trying to get into your apartment. I consoled you in the bathtub and coaxed you back to bed. I traced shapes and symbols with my fingertips between your shoulderblades. I always did hold back, ha. I'd like to think that would make you laugh. You had a few funny drunken exclamations that night. "BLEACH!" is still enough to make me smile to this day. But when you said "no virgins!" so lightly and playfully it made me withdraw back to a place so deep inside myself that I could never really reach you again.
Third November was hard. You saw your sister with your ex and it broke your brain. I could ride my bike with a beer in my hand and I did. I was hating myself all night and you led me to your home. Into that downstairs apartment. Thighs and silence. You could never just ask for sex and I could never just go for it. We just weren't those kinds of people. Circling each other. You took it out on me the next day at Thanksgiving. Treated me like less than a guest. I scotched myself belligerent, jumped the fence, and walked home without eating with you and your family. I think that's probably the worst I ever hurt you.
Fourth November was the World Series at that riverbend bar. Your sister brought us together again, hoped we could find peace. We talked lightly and gently. I had far too many budweisers and you had a thyroid problem. I embraced you strong and I told you I didn't hate you. The Cardinals got thrashed but at least one good thing came of it.
After that things got stupid. It was definitely my turn for desperation. You called me out in the saddest way possible and I deserved it. You finally told me what you didn't understand and I finally saw what preconceived notions you had about men and how you expect them to behave. But I still couldn't entirely come clean with you. I still couldn't tell you how and why I was hurting. I hope it wasn't the same way for you. You gave me your sister's guitar and you cut me off. Just like I told you.
I hope it's not too cold in your mind. Hope you can forget about pitiful voicemails, abandoned holidays, tense moments in the hallway, all those times we recognized how complicit we were in suffering. I'm drawing out like a sword here. Forgiveness comes. Peace comes. Summer comes. And they go. Even happy endings will fade too. It all becomes what it used to be. I know you're not looking for me. But I have to wonder what makes you think of me, if anything. Ginger ale? Spanish? Baseball? Uptown? 2012? Thanksgiving. God, I hope not.
I hope you remember me for making you laugh. For turning the mirror around on yourself and giving you the cold truth sometimes. For eating with you, drinking with you, talking, listening, being there with you in the times when we were still in each other's lives. And that you don't remember me for the person you wanted me to be. Or even the person I really was then. I hope you can think of the unexpected joys as much or more than you think of the unexpected disappointments. And if I die, and you should come find me at a memorial service or by tracking down my friends and family or some such, I hope you find folks who'll speak well of me and my memory.
And hey, maybe I'll see you again some gloomy November day. I can only hope that by then I'll have set everything free. And that we could get a drink and talk a while. Inside, away from the cold.