Gleaning

It seems it’s time now, to let in moments.  With the peace comes the happiness.

We had our wires so deeply crossed, early days and still learning of each other. I thought he had enough of the concert and had headed for the train. He left the bathroom and I was nowhere to be found.  When we finally found each other again – home – the crossing had encircled my entire body. He decided nothing less would do but to take hold of the top of the wire and peel.

We spent the evening at a fundraising event, chatting with strangers and bidding on items.  His delight in others, was itself a delight (to me). I remember his cardigan and the picture we had taken. Today it hangs on the side of the fridge, via magnet, one of few active images that remind me of what we shared. Later in the evening, the live music in the pub downstairs beckoned to us.  It was the only time we danced together in public; I remember our pride.

And then there were the infamous rooftop margaritas, which were not to be confused with balcony citronella nights.  We both had outdoor spaces that brought the joy of summer.  He leaned his guitar on the balcony chair as he wove and rewove, whatever music was on his mental playlist at the time.  And when the margaritas hit, he performed a one handed push up show, the dog racing around him in delight.  We both wove ourselves into the hanging lights, and revelled in each other and the warm, skylit evening.

High fives on Main Street.  The extrovert enjoys some whiskey and decides his woman should say hello to strangers. Had I been able to step outside my body, the openness of the people he asked to engage with me would have been heart-warming. This big, cold city just might have a soul.  It was a night like many others, where we headed out with the threads of a plan and built it as we went along.  Sometimes it was too much, but so were the two of us.  Sometimes.

Sunday. Cooking day.  Stocking freezers and making other days easier.  I hated the kitchen and he wanted to feed the masses.  Somehow this dissonance translated into his fluid direction and my smooth hand off.  Potato and leak soup.  Shepherd’s pie.  Chili.  I look at all of the (empty) containers now and wonder if I should lean my collection.  Tomorrow morning there will be a green smoothie.  His pant pockets all held well appreciated paper towels; I can see the movement of his hand to lips as he ensured there was no evidence of his liquid breakfast.

I lived a short story, with that great burl of a man. And I can feel him taking the peace further, journeying into the lessons and releasing.  Me too.

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