“What age would you stay? 30s?”
Overheard in
women’s room at the Main Berkeley Library, today, 2nd Fl. One young
twenty-something to another.
“Yeah, 35, 25…21!”
“Haha--’Forever 21’?”
The year before you got sick. That’s the age to
stay, girls. But no one can tell you this. It’s different for everyone: The
Spanish Flu, cancer. Just getting old. The brain injury that changed you so much you can only,
just barely, remember who you once were—like the wisp of smoke you think you
saw after the train rounded the corner. The spinal cord injury that left your
nipples your main sex organ, taking up the sword of your lower, formerly in
command, phallus.
The year before any of that or worse, the year
you didn’t know would be the one you’d want to keep. For me it was the year I
met Sally.
We convinced each other it wouldn’t matter if we
said it. We both felt the same so why say it?
“I want you” became code for “I love you,” which
we said when we grew braver. Finally, when we became more sober (but confused
it with growing braver still), we said, “I will marry you.”
We knew
we didn’t need to state the obvious: “I see you, I will stay with you, I will
honor you.” We didn’t need to say it.
Should we have stayed? Should we have stayed
forever in this year?
What did it look like?
The rope swing hung steadfastly. It hung on a
branch of the weeping willow tree over the deepest part of the river, floated
like the wisp that was true, that really did hang in the 5 o’clock blue
of a summer never meant to contain the rest of our lives. The summer we swung
out over the deepest part of the river and dropped, mercifully, into the cold
forgiving water. How did we know? How did we know to trust the previous Good
Time Charleys who hung the knot there in the first place? Or in the 4th
or the 19th place? How does the lineage of trust continue? Was it
because the knot was strong and right, looked like a knot our fathers would
tie? Or simply by merit of it being there that we trusted the rope was safe.
“We’re all in this together,” the knot seemed to say.
That bright indigo summer’s eve was not meant to
contain our whole lives. Our friends must have known this but we did not. We
tried to capture the perfect, lasso it with that swinging rope. Borrow the
strength of the knot and let it stand in for the rightness we wanted to feel in
our words but did not.
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