Friday, December 2, 2016

Straight to my arms


December. That means Seattle is reaching its apogee of rain, dark and gray. I sit in the café and listen to the music they are playing here. It's Astral Weeks.

Van Morrison is perfect for this weather. Especially the melancholy of "Madame George" and "Cypress Avenue." But it's another song that resurrects the lost time.

I remember.

I remember lying there after sex and you are caressing my forehead, brushing my hair back from my face. It was summer and the air felt more like apricots, honey and forever.

"Were you ever a ballerina?" You asked me.
"Is it because of this song?"
"Yeah, but it's your legs, your body. You're beautiful, Ada. You look like a ballerina."
"No…" and I couldn't say anymore, but in the light of that late morning in August, I danced in your arms.

Now, I think it is so strange that there can be such moments of love in my life—even then, when I could not love you every moment of the day. Nor you me. I cannot blame us. We did not know ourselves and that sorrow upstages ordinary regret at such moments.

It did not last. We know this. I do not even know where you really are.

If the World is Will and Representation, which is that day? Which is Astral Weeks?

Still, my heels click and clack.

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