Taos, NM 29.7.013

David proposed to Cheryl today.  That's all that needs to be said.  Somewhere, the wind blew-- and somewhere, the cicadas hummed, and somewhere and somewhere and somewhere. . .

On this trip, the thought that you could have-- or were supposed to have-- been here with me is both repetitive and invasive.  You were supposed to have marveled at the enormity and the very-real dimensions of the mountains (they are everywhere).  You were supposed to have experienced that same shortness of breath that I did on the ski lift, and at the top of the mountain: where the air was cold and fresh and the sun was warm on your shoulders (and mine).

You would have seen where I grew up: my old house, dilapidated and wonderful and still-inhabited, with other houses slowly encroaching.  You would have seen my tiny elementary school (Arroyo Seco), which is now a community center with the most pathetic and simple playground equipment (now unused) still outside, in the abandoned lot.

You would have seen all the artists and their wares-- artists who will soon have to give up their spaces to the next hopefuls attempting to capitalize (just get by) on a small tourist town.  The wares may never sell, but they are beautiful and expensive and filled with so much soul.

You would have seen and touched and walked inside the Earthships with me.

You would have disrobed as I did-- late at night, while the rest of the occupants slept in the shared house that we'd rented for the family reunion.

You would have watched-- and laughed, despite my irritation-- as I coerced the bang-maid's myriad pubic hairs down the drain and removed her one-piece bathing suit from the edge of the shared bathtub.

As the water in the tub rose, you'd have climbed in after me.  You would have held me close.

You would have looked into my eyes.  You would have seen the love in my face (mirroring all of everything I would have been seeing and feeling).

We wouldn't have had to speak.

Instead, here I am: I look into the mirror, and I see myself the way you used to.  And I know that that will never stop.  I am always going to see myself this way, because this is how I always wanted to be seen.  The tub fills behind me (hairs dutifully washed down the drain, the one-piece carefully hung on a towel rack), and I think of how like home this feels.

I can feel you disappearing.  And I know that when I leave tomorrow, I must do everything I can to come back.

Here, it doesn't hurt.  Here is the home that I've been missing since before you left.  Here, in this moment-- writing, on the bathroom rug, tub threatening to either overflow or wake the sleeping occupants (my family) of this shared and rented place; here, I have found a way forward.

Here, in this place, there is a window that looks out onto the open space of the future.

Here, there are the most beautiful skies.