poetic justice

One of the side effects of watching someone you love die, I realized, is this: the painful realization that everyone and everything you love can be taken away from you in an instant. I think it’s a trauma response  - preparing yourself for the end of every good thing.

Dancing on the surface, finding yourself lost in the haze of the universe, versus having your feet firmly planted on the ground, or your feet firmly planted in something. 

But I’ll tell you this - there is both a beauty and a pain to living this way. Floating on. Moving with the tides, moving with the currents. There is beauty in the sense of knowing that you can appreciate everything, but pain in the sense of knowing that everything beautiful isn’t always meant to last. 

Sometimes, it’s hard to hold on to that beautiful thing. And sometimes, we have that beautiful thing, but we think we don’t deserve it. We think we can’t handle it. Our lives - we’re so used to pain. We’re so used to protecting ourselves, we’re so used to the armour.

It’s not supposed to be easy, is it?

So, we let it all slip through our fingers. A relief. 

But it’s leaving so you don’t have to be left, first. My friend in my writing group says to me. 

-

The man who runs my favorite bakery gives me the biggest hug last Thursday afternoon. I’m on my way to Italian class, and I have to stop by for a panini with provolone and rapini. My Italian classes are a commitment, and I’m proud of myself for committing to them. 

It signifies something to me. Longevity. Putting down roots. Accepting the beautiful thing.

Home. 

“Emily! We haven’t seen you in so long!” He has the biggest smile, and the kindest blue eyes.

“I know! I was in Milan. But I’m back now.” I eye the display case at each pastry, panino, and focaccia. I always come for one thing, and end up leaving with five. 

“Ah, Milano. My credit card cries every time I go there.”

I start to laugh. “Trust me, I know.” The olive green bomber. The matching pants. My crossbody Louis. The Zara sweaters and little heels. Endless. That shopping list was endless, and it was healing. It made me remember how much I appreciate the art of a good outfit. 

But, Milan was transformative. Even if I didn’t feel it at first.

I needed a new space to help me loosen the hold certain memories had over me. Not a permanently new space, but just a change of scenery. And a new space will always do something to you, if you let it. 

“I’m just so happy you’re back.” One of the other girls at the bakery tells me. We hold on to each other for a long time, too. 

“Me too.” I tell her. I inhale the smell of coffee and catch the eyes of the familiar faces of the bakers in the back. I’m happy. I’m so happy. “Me too.”

-

I know my life has meaning because… was a prompt for this week’s writing group.

One of the girls answers:

“When I was little, I was terrified of my mom dying. I’d go to her room in the middle of the night and start to cry. But that’s how I know my life has meaning - I have people in my life that I love so much, and it terrifies me to lose them.” 

But we keep on loving them, anyway. 

-

“I just find it all…interesting.” 

Me and the Man at the Front are both looking up at the tower in the centre of the parking lot. It’s a Saturday night, and it’s our usual routine. It’s close to a year since I’ve known him. And what a relationship we’ve had. An immediate friendship, combined with lust, combined with feelings, combined with unrequited feelings. Combined with trust, combined with truth, combined with forgiveness. 

It’s complicated, but I always come back. I’ll always come back. 

And on this Saturday night, I’m not holding on to PN’s cigarette and lighter anymore.

In fact, it’s the first Saturday evening where I am here and he isn’t. 

“Do you remember when you came in before you left for Milan? And you were standing here, next to me, upset. After you had -”

“A conversation with him. Trust me. I remember.”

“You told him that you had feelings for him.”

“No, I told him that I had felt something. That took me a long time to shake.”

He shakes his head. “A writer who writes about love, but can’t seem to admit to herself how she feels. It’s the same thing - you felt something for him. You had always felt something for him.”

He was right. No matter where I went to. No matter whose arms I ended up in.

It was always him. It was always him.

But, I had realized something. The pain of that night had worn off, a lot.

“I remember that night. I remember all of it. What are you trying to say?”

“You told him how you felt.”

“Yes. And he told me that I needed to go to Milan.”

“And then all of the sudden, he quits in a fit of rage a few weeks later.”

Poetic justice. My friend says to me. The man’s pursuit of something that ultimately leads to his downfall. 

“You think I had something to do with all of this?”

He shrugs. 

“Maybe not directly. And maybe you didn’t mean to. But he was unhappy for a long time. And every time you came in here, he acted like that little kid. That little kid who wanted the toy he could never have.”

That beautiful thing.

It’s supposed to be a relief when we let it slip through our fingers, isn’t it?