"somewhere other than inside the out there" - part one
i had this love once, bitter pill and all that, but it turned out the be quite the story. hearts broken, weeping, fists of fury, and all that fantastical bullshit that you never think will happen to you. but eventually, like everything else, it does.
he was a good man. more than anything, he was a good man. he held strong to those convictions he knew so well, and yes, i'll talk him up like the superhero he was. absent cape and mask, he saved my life more than once.
smoke a cigarette.
there aren't enough words in the fucking world for someone who does something like that for you.
in these quiet nights, especially, when i'm only surrounded by smoke and the rattling of this house, i'm reminded of such a good man who took to my side by saying 'fuck the rest of 'em, we got us.'
i know, i know. it sounds pretty typical and predictable, but what do you know?
what seems to be too long ago, i decided to live my life with my heart half-dead, but it was to be expected. and there are people out there who said that i've "changed." there are a few who've put up with me and what's come with me since he died, but mostly, it's been "that poor girl" type of thing.
it's sad that i don't even like to talk about it anymore.
i live my life with this reluctance that a few of you understand and most of you shake your heads at.
it's been a long time since i really lived.
strangely enough, the phrase i've heard most is "you'll be ok." thank god, i know better.
there are people out there who wonder, whether in secret or openly, why i haven't just "gotten over this."
man, i do love direct quotes.
well, that's what this is all about isn't it? this is about me telling you about this love that anyone should be lucky enough to know.
unfortunately, i'm not going to do that.
not just yet.
first, let's talk about the cold.
when you live in boston, every facet of your life is invaded by cold from october to march (at the very least). this kind of cold does not let go. if you're inside for hours, occasionally, you'll still get a chill through your thick sweater. i'm talking about the type of cold that snacks on your will to live and freezes the fingers of your glove together. and this is all without the wind that eventually must be factored into the equation. biting and ripping and tearing wind that doesn't so much as bring you something beautiful like snow, it finds your crevices and leaks in your carefully bundled winter attitude. it sets you adrift for, as he loved to say, "the winter of your discontent." this is the type of cold that even us yankees shudder from, the type of cold that inspires people to grumble some parable about "the long, hard winter" when they're daring enough to shout over the noise of wind wailing through the small corridors of back bay. this type of cold gives people thoughts that boiling water poured over their faces would be an incredibly refreshing change of pace.
down here, in texas, i've become safe from those "discontents." the ridiculous "winter" of texas offers little more than brisk nights of thirty degrees and an ice storm every few decades. it rarely lasts for more than a month and a half.
it's warm here, but that doesn't mean that i've forgotten the cold.
he and i, we always talked about moving some place warmer, in attitude and climate.
picked up and packed up, we moved to new orleans with little more than each other and an outstanding need to start over. i guess you could say that we were two kids on a mission. a few months into it, i guess you could say that we figured out that we didn't get what we bargained for. don't let yourself think that that stopped us in anyway, but it certainly served for us to hold onto each other a hell of a lot tighter.
luckily, his father, a brilliant mind, and his stepmom, a heart of gold, kept their hands near and free in case we fell harder than expected.
but i digress...
we were talking about the cold, and my strained escape from it.
you see, i've found in the past year that i am constantly searching for some place warmer, summer twelve months a year. now, forgive me for stretching this obvious metaphor a bit further, but even in texas, winter hits with a tight fist. it seems that i never lost that chill that boston embedded under my skin. the cold eases its way deeper each year because it's found a home here, inside.
someone once told me that love makes you warm, or maybe i read that, side of a campbell's soup can or something. either way, this cold is a bitter, ruthless one with not one interest in loosening its (again, forgive me) icy grip.
now, i know, that was melodramatic and quite the overused analogy. but if you bear with me, i'm sure i can tell you about this love i got once from, more than anything, a good man.
