Some homes are well-lit, where the bright white bulbs radiate an insistent illumination on every corner and bower; and upon immediately entering it strikes you with a blindness that must have been like entering the world from the womb, with the exquisite fright and wonder I got as the darkness around becomes narrower until the body is thrust completely into the light with nothing else to feel but this. Or say, that for a stretch of time I am within it, the effect has on the eyes a surreal lens, only to be broken by leaving for the outside nighttime where even so, the impression would leave on me a reminiscent pang of ambivalence. I would frequently leave such a home, heavy with drink, the only events grounding me to life being the fact that I had left one place and must now go home to another, and the in-between moments of waiting, for a cab, to ensure the latter is fulfilled.
One should never drink when he is sad, or so she repeatedly reminded us as she also drank—and the more we did, the more our heads bowed in the turmoil that we still had yet to develop. There was once when I had been feeling particularly sick. We had all ordered food, L— and D— and his father. The waiting game, at some moment in the room, became unbearable as the darkness outside of this asked me to receive it wholesomely; I could see so much here, and so much that could not be, that my stomach clenched and longed for the bed to peaceably, although still restlessly, meet my preoccupation that had not stopped for the past five years, where I push away the torturing image, of him meeting her body and affection, that persecuted me with a merciless severity. How terrible it was, and with suffering that only reawakens when life halts for just enough time to realize that I have moved, to have nightmares as a passion.
And some homes are dim, only one or two lights that are relied on for illumination; and even then, it is only enough light to remind one that he is not in the dark. My forefront memories, except for the home I had lived when they were conceived, consist of spending the days with Lorraine. I would remember them all if I could, but I would have to wait until some object or incident recounts it for me and I am once again transported to that home and can move about freely in thought, sitting at the table where the only light on was directly above us, an ensconced light dangling from the nine-foot ceiling. Squinting, I try to find the right match to this puzzle piece and look to and from the box to make sure. The same motion evokes countless conversations during that I could recall—if I deliberated long enough, devoting myself to the daydream, I could speak with her now, forming her words as to convince myself that she has really spoken them at this moment; if I had ever another moment—
For nearly a month the puzzle had took two corner edges of the table. It had seen the table from late fall to the early arrival of winter. It was left alone when it was left idle. “We’ll have to try to flip it when we’re done so that we can tape it and keep it.” No, she said. We were to break it apart and put it back in the box. It was what she always did. Her amusement at welcoming vanity, of building only to knock down, left in me a thought of whether she enjoyed watching things burn or accepted that all things must anyway; that she made no effort to resist it would since leave me wondering. Because of it I stole glances, watching her intently work on her section—her unblemished round innocent face still so full of childish youth, yet more mature beyond us; but was I stealing if she had known I was staring. I sometimes wonder what it would be like when she aged, and if the world would work itself on her so that she became a part of it rather than what she was now, a wondrous thing to grace it. I could still hear her laughter through the dimness as I went on about something that was only funny because of who we were together, not because what I said was funny: jokes like that are often times the product of a relationship that gives it its success; isolated from us two, my words weren’t susceptibly humorous. But it felt good to make someone laugh; and it felt good to give someone the same merriment. Though my words have not changed its expression, their seriousness still intact and formal, I suppose it is better to be received as funny than as bleak.
One day, perhaps my birthday, we shared leche flan cake. As she brought out the cake, I had just finished washing a few dishes she had left. Holding the newly washed forks in my hand, I smiled and brought them to her. “Did you just bring me the fork you just washed?” What sublimely undiscoverable force had brought me contentment in that moment, I do not know: but it, she, had been staring right at me, waiting for a response, to which I could not express without having her feel my heart as she held it. If ever a friendship between a man and woman could be as strong as I had felt it then.
The puzzle remained an item, as mentioned, for some time. When finally it was complete, Lorraine putting in the last piece, it was not really the last piece, as directly in the center a cat’s face was missing. I recall the fascination I wore when, as we approached the very end, it seemed like nothing would have gotten lost; so, when it was noticed that one was not there, a deep unfulfilled indifference proved my skepticism that such a thing could be as perfect as it seemed—but in spite of that, my true disappointment reminded me that I was more hopeful than a cynic. Letting it lay there, incomplete and yet completely satisfied for what it was, Lorraine lifted up her eyes to me. Half of me expected that when we had finished, she would want to preserve it, notwithstanding the imperfect completion; the other half wanted her to destroy it, if only to see if she would be okay with releasing it from her presence. Her hands teased me, hovering over the puzzle— “But there’s still one piece left to put in,” hoping to postpone it; and, her eyes still on mine, the pieces came up like two waves constructively building up into the other and dismantling as they came down.
Jan. 2019
Embers, rekindled