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Serendipity
6 May 2007 22:56I was at Silent Dancer's house warming / baby shower. In the middle of a really nice conversation, I suddenly decided to go home. At the time, I found the idea strange and out of place, as I'd been feeling welcome in a social group I've been very emotionally conflicted about for months, but some internal part of me had made the decision, and I went with it.
I got home to a large pile of laundry that needed to be folded. A few towels into the pile, my cell phone rang, one of the songs I have slaved to only a few phone numbers. It had been so long since any of those people had called that I had forgotten I even had the song on my phone.
It was Roo. She had been packing, getting ready to move next weekend, and had found this note I'd written her years ago.
We laughed and chatted, trying to figure out when I'd written that note. Like a hurricane, she blows into my evening and tears my heart open to the world. We talked for nearly three hours, and I am left with the dim recollection of what it had felt like to wear my heart on my sleeve. Left with that dim recollection, and the soft, warm contentment of knowing that we've reached a place in our friendship where we can go months without calling, not needing to worry that the other will be mad at the absence; the warmth of knowing that we will always be friends, that we have become something permanent to each other.
The sense of permanence, of stable relationships, is a particular narcotic which I have been aching for lately.
I got home to a large pile of laundry that needed to be folded. A few towels into the pile, my cell phone rang, one of the songs I have slaved to only a few phone numbers. It had been so long since any of those people had called that I had forgotten I even had the song on my phone.
It was Roo. She had been packing, getting ready to move next weekend, and had found this note I'd written her years ago.
Roo,
I want to see you again, want to see your smile. Maybe we could go to a movie, and I could hold your hand in the dark. I want to hold your hand. Are you free on Tuesday?
There are too many things I want to say, but maybe fewer words are best. I like you. I like spending time with you, and want to see you again soon.
We laughed and chatted, trying to figure out when I'd written that note. Like a hurricane, she blows into my evening and tears my heart open to the world. We talked for nearly three hours, and I am left with the dim recollection of what it had felt like to wear my heart on my sleeve. Left with that dim recollection, and the soft, warm contentment of knowing that we've reached a place in our friendship where we can go months without calling, not needing to worry that the other will be mad at the absence; the warmth of knowing that we will always be friends, that we have become something permanent to each other.
The sense of permanence, of stable relationships, is a particular narcotic which I have been aching for lately.