On Sunday mornings, the bedroom blinds rise and fall in the soft, yellow breeze. Piano keys inflate a somber, life raft melody, and I drift off. These tectonic thoughts of mine shift so quickly. There’s little time to acquaint myself with the person I’ve become or am becoming.
Six months ago, I didn’t even know him. I’d read about Big Sur, but I’d never planted my feet at that Pacific precipice. Six months ago, I hadn’t ferried from Sausalito to San Francisco or walked Rodeo Drive. That was someone else’s life.
Six months ago, I spent my hours running along Woodlawn Avenue in Catonsville. I enjoyed looking at the old Victorians back there. Each one, a dollhouse with petite turrets and mansard roofs, freshly iced with Christmas lights. In window cutouts, mothers heaved toddlers over their shoulders. Elderly men ticked through newspapers, exasperation on their weathered, roadmap faces. The street was lit only by endless, window illuminations. I followed the pockets of light like breadcrumbs into the dark. What was I looking for then, if not for him? Dead leaves fluttered across the vacant road, and the boughs of the trees twisted overhead like arteries.
Six months ago, I found happiness in a tiny, electric green Ziploc bag. Happiness was $20 and it stuffed my head with clouds as the snow fell. I drifted off on those Sunday mornings too. Sleeping for hours and hours. The sounds of truck engines and children’s laughter outside reminded me how detached I’d become. So many Sundays spent in a hazy daydream. I remember the way the bump of brown grit looked on our granite countertop. There was a solace I took in the ritual of breaking each clump with my driver’s license.
But, now that love is here, and I run in the light, and happiness comes without a drug deal in a Baltimore alley, my life is more fractured than its ever been. Every heavy hour that passes without him is an ailing desire I cannot satisfy, and every Sunday morning is an idle invention of time.