i spent a lot of my time hiding from your eyes as a child, from the disappointment i'd see in them over the girl i was growing up. i with the unkempt hair, who loved books over clothes, never sweet nor affectionate nor biddable, too quiet and shy to be the prodigy you weren't given the chance to be.
it was easy then, to hide, with you oceans away. all i had to do was bottle up all the questions and confusion and existential angst for a while, as much as i could, until they overflowed and i could write them down at last, fingers always trying to keep up.
words were refuge, even then.
now things have changed. now there is no departure date that looms over us, and you home everyday. i find you waiting for me with dinner at night: delicious, healthy meals i savor after a long day's work.
but how to recount the pent-up dinner stories missed all these years? how do we create context from the barely scratched slate of calls and greeting cards, perfunctorily made?
my fear: that the imagined distance of years and wilted feelings have become a tangible wall, an everest of regrets too unforgiving for us to scale.
yet to my surprise, you made the first crack on it with cake.
that orange cake i found you lavishly glazing with sugar icing one night, a simple homemade treat which was already excellent on its own. to which i commented my love for chocolate mousse myself, which had you minutes later whipping up a new batch of chocolate icing for me to taste.
(have i ever told you how much i love cake?)
now i know where i get my impulsiveness from. it felt good, and more than a little strange, for the first time seeing me in you. or seeing you in me.
making me believe we'll overcome that wall with our impulsive cracks yet.: )
it was easy then, to hide, with you oceans away. all i had to do was bottle up all the questions and confusion and existential angst for a while, as much as i could, until they overflowed and i could write them down at last, fingers always trying to keep up.
words were refuge, even then.
now things have changed. now there is no departure date that looms over us, and you home everyday. i find you waiting for me with dinner at night: delicious, healthy meals i savor after a long day's work.
but how to recount the pent-up dinner stories missed all these years? how do we create context from the barely scratched slate of calls and greeting cards, perfunctorily made?
my fear: that the imagined distance of years and wilted feelings have become a tangible wall, an everest of regrets too unforgiving for us to scale.
yet to my surprise, you made the first crack on it with cake.
that orange cake i found you lavishly glazing with sugar icing one night, a simple homemade treat which was already excellent on its own. to which i commented my love for chocolate mousse myself, which had you minutes later whipping up a new batch of chocolate icing for me to taste.
(have i ever told you how much i love cake?)
now i know where i get my impulsiveness from. it felt good, and more than a little strange, for the first time seeing me in you. or seeing you in me.
making me believe we'll overcome that wall with our impulsive cracks yet.: )
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