Snippet
A golden amber glow covers the tops of newly barren trees. I’ve been focusing on cold air pressed to sun-kissed skin; tall shadow leading the bouncing black blob of my little dog. In the mornings, when the light is vacant and the rooms are quiet, I think through every form I have yet to be.
Biking
It’s cold enough (and i’ve stumbled through my depression enough again) to start biking again. On the early weekend mornings, I make the small, but hilly, trip from my house to the coffee shop. I miss biking. I did a good amount of it when I was younger and in college. I miss the feeling of pumping your legs to get a good speed going. I miss the stress and ache of tight thighs supporting you up a too-steep hill. I especially love the feeling of going down: the mix of danger and exhilaration when cold air whizzes around you and you feel, for once, light and fast enough to beat the pack.
And everything I see from now on will be something new
Your partner tells you that he has a new drive to live. He is growing all the time. Shifting into something solid and confident and full of love and purpose. You notice each transition. Each new step he makes fills you with an intense sense of overwhelming joy and pride. How lovely it is to see someone you love accomplish the things you always knew they could? How lovely is it to watch a new version of them molded before your eyes.
For December your mother suggests spending Christmas in Marfa. Your older brother’s job is stressful and, depending on how things go, it might be the last he spends in Marfa. His dog is old and prone to seizures and you think about how hard it must be to wonder when’s the right time to end something special.
She proposes going to the National park. You ask if her if your partner is invited and she says, on speaker phone, that as long as you two are together he’s always invited. That, “he’s family.”
You two have been together for six years: the longest relationship of your life. Your sunflower. Your bright light. Your last one ended right after Big Bend. Fault lines and geographical time. You never seem him again. You could propose to him, except your brother is getting married now and you don’t know how you feel about marriage. You have thought about moving from here, up to Chicago where there are more gay people and the air isn’t so miserable during the summer. You think about the canyon. You think about the ghost town: your face smiling in a novelty mine shaft. You think about the basin, vast and unmoving. Your sweaty trek up the switchbacks or the long night spent staring at the black sheet of night, speckled with blinking stars.
You know why it’s so hard for your brother to leave. You understand the beauty of the place. You know what it’s like to leave and build something new and stable. Hard, but worth the effort.