"Summer" 2019, 14" x 10" As I watch his red truck race down the frontage road next to the air strip, I hold back my tears and wonder why I didn't make this last longer. It is always longer with my father, ever since he moved to Maine, we do the best we can with letters every week and bi-annual visits. I visit in the summer because Maine is pretty, and tolerable, weather-wise.
I don't know, sitting on the airplane, choking tears back behind the sturdy plastic window, that later in life I will have other summers full with missing a man I love dearly. I don't know that this longing will set its talons in me and hold tight, searching for ways to bring that longing back.
Is this how I will know that I love someone?
I long to be near him then revel in the short presence of his person. There is so much that I don't know, but I do know it is almost impossible to really share a large part of my life with anyone for too long. I like my alone time. I like drinking tea and sitting silent, staring at the grass, the sky, or the small painting of Humphrey Bogart in my tiny home. I like walking slowly, working on the seven projects I have going at random intervals, taking bike rides and maybe going to yoga.
Unpredictable, even to myself, keeps me on my toes and interested. It keeps me open to what might come next. Having to explain all of the intricacies of this type of freedom feels exhausting. The person I long for doesn't need this explanation because he is there long enough to appreciate and gone long enough to miss.
This is the love that suits me, where I have my own life, full up to my eyeballs, then precious moments, sharing breath with the person for who I long. Tiny bursts of joy and connection, laughter and love.
I wish it weren't that I had to feel this pain in order to truly understand myself. The horror of looking back at my life and seeing that I have been denying who I really am because somewhere along the line I was convinced that I was typical. I was trained to believe that I need what suits other people just fine.
But I am not that person, and I won't be that person ever again. Especially not in the summer, when longing for someone is even sweeter as it mixes with the memories of my youth and becomes something altogether unique, cherished, and sacred.
I don't know, sitting on the airplane, choking tears back behind the sturdy plastic window, that later in life I will have other summers full with missing a man I love dearly. I don't know that this longing will set its talons in me and hold tight, searching for ways to bring that longing back.
Is this how I will know that I love someone?
I long to be near him then revel in the short presence of his person. There is so much that I don't know, but I do know it is almost impossible to really share a large part of my life with anyone for too long. I like my alone time. I like drinking tea and sitting silent, staring at the grass, the sky, or the small painting of Humphrey Bogart in my tiny home. I like walking slowly, working on the seven projects I have going at random intervals, taking bike rides and maybe going to yoga.
Unpredictable, even to myself, keeps me on my toes and interested. It keeps me open to what might come next. Having to explain all of the intricacies of this type of freedom feels exhausting. The person I long for doesn't need this explanation because he is there long enough to appreciate and gone long enough to miss.
This is the love that suits me, where I have my own life, full up to my eyeballs, then precious moments, sharing breath with the person for who I long. Tiny bursts of joy and connection, laughter and love.
I wish it weren't that I had to feel this pain in order to truly understand myself. The horror of looking back at my life and seeing that I have been denying who I really am because somewhere along the line I was convinced that I was typical. I was trained to believe that I need what suits other people just fine.
But I am not that person, and I won't be that person ever again. Especially not in the summer, when longing for someone is even sweeter as it mixes with the memories of my youth and becomes something altogether unique, cherished, and sacred.
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