I spent the better part of two years in bed with sorrow, and she was far from a kind lover.
Yes, she held me tight, but she was awfully jealous of joy, and I guess for the first time, I was loyal to something. She gave me many gifts, some of which I keep to this day: a coat of grief I rarely put by the door, and memories of the past that never leave my sight. Every day, she must have laid these memories out for me. Only it was strange. They were all just a little off, bent out of shape. They lacked any dullness or the idle moments that fill so much of our lives. These memories depicted a life that any man or woman would give their greatest treasures for.
So each day, with no one but sorrow at my side, I looked at what I once had and I shook. I grew to much prefer living inside the years that had long passed me by, like a summer storm that brought Ella close by my side under a sleeping bag by Six Mile Creek. Our bodies, so timid, lay shoulder to shoulder. Such an innocent time then. My heart raced, and the rain hammered down on top of us. Or a trip to Montreal, the Old City, champagne, and a king-sized bed that overlooked the carnival and Ferris wheel. New York and the lightning storms that danced outside our Williamsburg window. Mexico and the orange cat I called “Bonito.” Stumbling through the streets arm in arm, draining margaritas to justify loving each other just a little longer. Or lastly, back home that first year, laying on cold asphalt off Coddington Rd., dancing under streetlights in a snowstorm. Painted summer skies by Stewart park. Kentucky taboo and Amish baked goods.
All of these memories I have chosen to live in, to take shelter in, and I know them well. But I am beginning to forget what is true and what is comfort. Sorrow has twisted everything together in her web and now I write and I write and I write.
