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The first time I saw a Redwood tree, I put my hand on it and cried. I didn't let anyone notice I was crying.
It wasn't even big, as far as Redwoods go (although it was still huge), and it wasn't even in its natural habitat. It was a transplant, all the way across the ocean, in Kew Gardens, London.
That was one of the last things she and I did together, visiting Kew, before we broke up. It was more than two years ago now, but I still remember what she was wearing, how nice it looked on her shoulders, how I kept looking at them and wanted to put my hands on them--no time for that, though, and her reaction brushed my hands off if she didn't brush them off herself physically.
Wait. Why would she have been wearing a tank top in December?
As usual, the mind obviously picks, chooses and splices. I could go back through old photos to try to make sense of it all, but, even 26 months later... or 32... whatever the exact number, it's still too painful. Neither can I go through a drawer where I kept piles of papers, receipts, journals and souvenirs, or donate our old Christmas tree or sort through the decorations. It is easier to let them sit, like corpses in a mausoleum.
I will have to one day do something with the physical items, but one wonders if I shall ever decide to jettison the emotional items, that pain, or will I just carry it around with me through the rest of my life, like an attractive girl with a healthy skeletal-muscular structure carries her shoulders; like a Redwood (even a small one, as far as Redwoods go), far away from California, in the mists of England, carries its branches, all the way to the top but not all the way to the bottom.
After 6 years, so much of whom you are, as a person, is built around that other person. It's been more than two years. What about when it's more then three? What about when it's six? What about when I'm nearly dead?
I'm sure she's moved on, perhaps multiple times, yet here I still sit, thinking of her shoulders and a Redwood tree. I have no desire to go back, yet I can't really say I've moved on either. I can't even quite conceptualize what that would look like.
One is tempted to hope for a savior, but what kind of relationship would that be? No one wants to be a savior.
On the other hand, hoping for a savior at all implies hoping a relationship solves one's baggage, and that is about like hoping another yearly round of Christmas gifts cluttering your house will somehow solve the issue of many previous years' clutter.
I hope one day I can see Redwoods in California without thinking about the Redwoods of England and the girl I didn't want to see me cry over the beauty and splendor of a tree.
It wasn't even big, as far as Redwoods go (although it was still huge), and it wasn't even in its natural habitat. It was a transplant, all the way across the ocean, in Kew Gardens, London.
That was one of the last things she and I did together, visiting Kew, before we broke up. It was more than two years ago now, but I still remember what she was wearing, how nice it looked on her shoulders, how I kept looking at them and wanted to put my hands on them--no time for that, though, and her reaction brushed my hands off if she didn't brush them off herself physically.
Wait. Why would she have been wearing a tank top in December?
As usual, the mind obviously picks, chooses and splices. I could go back through old photos to try to make sense of it all, but, even 26 months later... or 32... whatever the exact number, it's still too painful. Neither can I go through a drawer where I kept piles of papers, receipts, journals and souvenirs, or donate our old Christmas tree or sort through the decorations. It is easier to let them sit, like corpses in a mausoleum.
I will have to one day do something with the physical items, but one wonders if I shall ever decide to jettison the emotional items, that pain, or will I just carry it around with me through the rest of my life, like an attractive girl with a healthy skeletal-muscular structure carries her shoulders; like a Redwood (even a small one, as far as Redwoods go), far away from California, in the mists of England, carries its branches, all the way to the top but not all the way to the bottom.
After 6 years, so much of whom you are, as a person, is built around that other person. It's been more than two years. What about when it's more then three? What about when it's six? What about when I'm nearly dead?
I'm sure she's moved on, perhaps multiple times, yet here I still sit, thinking of her shoulders and a Redwood tree. I have no desire to go back, yet I can't really say I've moved on either. I can't even quite conceptualize what that would look like.
One is tempted to hope for a savior, but what kind of relationship would that be? No one wants to be a savior.
On the other hand, hoping for a savior at all implies hoping a relationship solves one's baggage, and that is about like hoping another yearly round of Christmas gifts cluttering your house will somehow solve the issue of many previous years' clutter.
I hope one day I can see Redwoods in California without thinking about the Redwoods of England and the girl I didn't want to see me cry over the beauty and splendor of a tree.