Moonspun

I have, for the 5+ years, that FFO and I been separated tried to be supportive of the time that my precious daughter is not with me and with her other mother. Some could argue that FFO is ‘better’ somehow because she is the birth mother. I think that’s bullshit. She has struggled her entire life to maintain a calm, organized and drama free life. She has failed miserably.

Now lil moonspun, if not necessarily an angel, but she is 11 and she struggles with the usual adolescent girl things, let alone the unique family life she has. I worry mightily lately about how chaotic lil m’s life is at FFO’s. FFO was recently diagnosed with lyme disease, which is terrible and while I have enormous empathy for her, I do not have sympathy for her using it as an excuse for a bad memory. She’s always had a bad memory and RP just looked up the symptoms and was not able to find memory in any of them. FFO also now has an 18 month old son with a speech delay and seems always to be sick. Lil m is a good big sister, but I can only imagine how chaotic life can be.

I could go on….but I am not here to trash FFO. I don’t really want to, although I could, but it seems a waste of my energy and not the point.

Tonight she called me all worked up because Lil m had just “hit her little brother really hard in the back” and she wanted to know if she took lil m’s iPod touch away (her beloved Christmas present) would that continue at my house. I did not answer affirmatively, but I did ask her if she would take it away for a whole week and she said yes. What I am bothered about it the scene I heard while on the phone. I realize, in hindsight, I deliberately asked to talk to lil m in order to keep engaged. I felt sick to my stomach at first when I could hear lil m upset and FFO speaking sharply to her. And of course lil brother making all kinds of noises in the background. Lil m finally agreed to talk to me and all I did was ask her about school and not the incident so she was calm.

Do I think that lil m hit her younger brother? Of course. I am sure when I was 11 and got frustrated I whacked my younger sister. Do I think it is right to blame it on “all that is going on at school?” and all the other inane comments that FFO said and will say about it? No. I think it is normal and a combination of a chaotic, not well run househould.

I want to do the right thing by lil moonspun, so I am becoming increasingly interested in having her live with me full time. I even offered that as a way to help FFO at the beginning of the school year and she tried to tell me that lil moonspun wanted just the opposite. Lil m kind of deferred the question when I talked to her about it and I had a distinct impression she was somehow trying to protect FFO. In any case, I let it go and we continued with the same schedule.

But I am not sure what to do. Is it really the best thing for lil m or will it make me worry less to try and pursue it? I do not know the answer. I do know that I want this kind of madness to stop and I am afraid it won’t be if I don’t do something creative.

Ah, the life of a parent…

Once Upon a Time there was a woman named Moonspun. She lived in Vermont and started a blog. She started her blog in the fall of 2007 for multiple reasons, for her own place on the big web. Because she was inspired by others. Because she wanted to write. Because she was in a new relationship, a new house, a new job and life was changing.

Big time.

Once upon a time this Moonspun blogged nearly every day, but at the very least 5 days a week. Often a work. Her new job, while fine, did not fill up the entire work week. Once upon a time there were so many new things to contemplate to write about. And there were so many others who, like Moonspun, blogged too. There was so much to read and write!

Over the years, she blogged about buying a house with her husband-t0-be, about what it was like to be divorced and trying to juggle co-parenting with her ex, about being bisexual and after being with a woman for 13 years finding herself with a man, about being a stepparent. Then there were marriage proposals, a wedding, first family trips to meet in-laws and the growing pains of living and creating this new life she was living.

And along the way she was blessed with people who came to her little corner of the web and read what she had to say. And she was blessed to meet a couple of these blogging friends in real life. They were as wonderful and as funny as they appeared online.

Gradually a shift happened and Moonspun would be hard pressed to know when it happened, but the writing faded. At least the writing on here. In daily life a master’s program produced many a writing project. It would be easy to blame juggling school work and life on why she didn’t blog as much. But that’s not quite it. Somehow it became harder, not easier to think of things to blog. Or maybe that same energy and excitement faded. In any case, the posts became fewer and farther in between.

The funny thing is that it seemed to happen to not just Moonspun, but a circle of her blogging friends as well. There were less posts, and yet suddenly friends requests appeared on Facebook and a new kind of keeping in touch started.

And so here I am on the 3rd day of 2012 writing on this neglected corner of the web explaining why I it has been so long since I have been here. Life has changed. And yet I miss this. I think about blogging nearly every day still. I miss going behind the curtain you see to write some words and wonder if anyone is still out there to read them. And finding I am ok either way.

This place–my space–is still vital to me. It is an important chronicle of the early part of my life with my beloved Running Professor. It is part of our history and a way in which I worked out some of the kinks of the life we were creating. We are still creating it, but it is different now. We have been together for 5 1/2 years. Not the 1+ as when I started the blog. So much has changed and yet, as in life, so much remains the same.

I am a mother. Lil moonspun is now 11 and wow, is she a tween. She is still so delightful and magical and yet the hints of dark moodiness of teenage years flash now and again. I am a wife and as I type this and watch RP on his computer across the room working on revisions for a book, my tummy still flutters with how handsome he is and how much I adore him. I am now a graduate with a master’s degree and still  unsure of what to do with my life. I am a friend, and blessed with genuine and quirky people to share this life journey with. I am a daughter, sister, cousin, committee chair, volunteer, admin and so much more.

I am me. And Once Upon a Time that was not always enough for me. From this, from here, from you, from him, from her…now it is enough. Now it is.

Happy New Year.

Dear Irene,

I am sorry to start this out with such a cranky statement. But you are a total bitch. It’s been more than four weeks since your fury unleashed itself upon our small state and every day I’ve thought of you. i wanted to say something kinder, but really? What is there to say? People lost their lives and their homes because you decided to dump an unholy amount of wind and water in the mountains of Vermont. You probably know this, but when you rain that much on the mountains, the water goes downhill. And fast.

Really, really fast.

In fact lthe ocal weather man said the night of the storm, when it was dark and stormy and there was no power in our house and luckily we had some batteries so we could listen to him, that five inches of water in the mountains equals 20 feet of water in the valleys. That is a hell of a lot of water. And it was.

Now RP and I were fine and lil moonspun was safe in Mass with my parents. Yea we didn’t have power, but we live at a high elevation. And while our babbling brook across the street roared with anger, it’s too far away from our house and too low to ever crest up here.

But 3 miles down the road, where a small concrete bridge sloped over a normally babbling river, things got a bit crazy. Your fury forced that water to rush and rise and in no time that bridge and half of the state road had caved in. And what happened there was a small microcosm of what was happening all over our state.

In a neighborhood near our downtown people were woken in the middle of the night and told to evacuate and in more than 50 homes water reached above the first floor windows took belongings with them, and left unseeming amounts of mud.  My GB (great boss) and his wife, in another town, watched as the river touched the ceiling of their first floor and waited to see if they needed to leave their house out a back door onto a hill from their second story, because it almost came to that.

Since that wild day and night, I have seen things I’d never thought I’d see in my small state and small town. Trash and mud beyond comprehension. A neighborhood that literally looked like a war zone as exhausted people threw out much of what they owned, burned some of it in giant bonfires in their backyards, and stripped their houses down to the studs because everything was just ruined. I’ve done a small part in helping some people, I’ve mucked mud, sorted through soaked photo albums, given out supplies, donated clothes and food. I’ve watched my beloved boss struggle to return to the university and a new academic year when I can tell he’d just rather be home fixing his house with his wife. And who can blame him.

I wonder often how long it will be before I don’t drive around here and not see evidence of your wrath. Giant trees that were uprooted and washed into fields by the river. Twisted guard rails half hanging on or put back in place, but not necessarily shape. Orange cones that mark places to avoid because the road is simply gone under it. The signs for the FEMA resource center that is established now in our local library. Pleas for donations of all kinds. Multiple discussion of flood insurance.

Yes, Irene you did a number on us.

But we in Vermont have done what most people do when confronted with a raging bitch. We fight back. We just don’t take that kind of crap from anyone. We dig and rebuild and help each other.  You don’t belong here, you just passed by and pissed on us. And while we may never forget that, it will only bring out the best in us.

So in the end, you lost, I think.

You better not come back, but if you do, we will be ready. We are Vermont Strong.

Moonspun

I realized as we were in the waiting room at the vet’s that while I had had more than my share of pets die on me, I had never witnessed one being put down. It was unfortunate that it was the end of the day and the vet was running behind. Damn dog was at our feet, eating up the attention of pats, hugs and kisses. Occasionally RP’s eyes would fill with tears, Lil RP#1 would start crying again, and lil moonspun would try to snuggle closer on my lap as we waited.

I could not help but wonder if damn dog knew. The appointment had been made for more than 2 weeks. RP had come to the inevitable, but painful decision that it was time to let his beloved dog of 16 years go. The benign lump on her side had grown so much that she could not always right herself. Sometimes she needed help up. Sometimes we would come home and she would have been stuck for what was obviously a long time because she was laying in her own pee. RP knew that once he and I were both gone full time, it was not going to be a safe environment for damn dog. So he talked about his decision with lrp1 who said she wanted to be there and so it had to be done before she left for the summer.

And so there we were, the four of us, finally huddled in the small room. Damn dog, for all her laziness at home, would not lay down on the table. Even two days before we had taken her on a camping trip and she had gotten out of her collar and wandered away to the beach in the middle of the night. Much further than we ever thought she could still walk.  Maybe it was her last hurrah.

The vet’s first attempt missed it’s mark on her front paw. I was the only one who saw because everyone else was sobbing too much. RP was holding her, LilRP1 could not look and lil moonspun was tucked into my arm. Damn dog was still standing on the table, and then the second shot worked and she went down, asleep. Everyone really lost it then. I watched the vet then checking her heart. And I realized damn dog was hanging on still. He reached for his electric razor again and said that she had a very strong heart. The third shot did was it was supposed to and her heart stopped after that. It was extraordinary to see life drain from her in that way.

The vet reverently wrapped her in the flannel sheet we had brought, the one that she has laid on in our bedroom for the past 5 years. Although they insisted on a plastic body bag, when we got home  RP ditched that one. He had made a hole in our backyard down the slope from our firepit and I had painted on a rock from our brook in a headstone of sorts. When RP was sure that the grave was deep enough, he laid damn dog in it and the four of us gathered around. We each said our piece and then RP filled in the hole. While he did that, the girls each gathered their own bouquets of wildflowers from our yard to lay on the grave.

It was a perfect summer night with a clear sky and comfortable temperatures. We made our first fire of the summer and enjoyed our outdoor space. We shared memories of Gizmo and just chatted in general. We toasted bread on sticks and had s’mores. Despite the agony of what had happened, letting go of a beloved pet, it was a sweet family time.

I know that wherever damn dog is now, her lump is gone, her energy is back and she is doing whatever she can to make sure her master is ok.

RIP, damn dog. I miss you.

What I read at our family ceremony:

You were the dog I never expected to meet, let alone to love.
You were the dog that came with my husband and all my friends and family knew it was true love because I accepted you, too.
You were the dog who I tripped over in the kitchen, reluctantly fed, and let outside in the middle of the night for a break no matter what the weather.
You were the dog who barked at us when we came home after work as if admonishing us for leaving you alone.
You were the dog who I initially labeled ‘damn dog’ out of frustration and it became an affectionate nickname.
You were the dog who accompanied me on 3 mile runs from the house a few years ago.
In the 5 years we have known each other, you were the dog who captured my heart unexpectedly and whom, if I am honest, I bonded with over devotion and love for a man…your master and my husband.
I feel honored to have shared the last few years of your life and wish your spirit well on its next journey. Be well.

My dearest daughter,

Today the calendar turns and you are now 11 years old. As I write this I am in my office more than 1000 miles from where you are on the shores of Lake Michigan at Camp of Our Dreams.  I will think about you all day and hope that the daily pictures from camp that I look at each evening contain a glimpse of your day so I can see your smiling face.

The camp drop-off was emotional for me. In ways I did not expect and am still processing. You, yourself were fine until we were about a half hour from camp.  While you had expressed no fear at all up until that point, I think the enormity of what you were about to do–go to camp for 3 weeks where you did not know anyone far away from home—really hit you.  Part of my job as you mom was to listen to your fears, but to assure you that what you felt was normal and that you were going to have a good time. I know they might have felt like hollow words coming from me, but I hope later, in a quite moment, you were able to appreciate them for what they were–simple and honest advice.

I so loved dropping you off at a place that is so special to my own life experience and to my heart.  In hindsight I am not sure that I have fully explained how much camp means to me, maybe I wanted you to have your own experience first and am hoping this is something we will always share.

It was really hard to walk away from you and leave. And it had nothing to do about worrying about you. I know you are in one of the safest places on earth. I know you are in good hands. After all, we talked to three people who I had worked with 20+ years ago who love camp so much they still go back. I think after mulling it over for a few days, that part of me wanted to stay.  It felt surreal being the one to talk to your cabin leader who saw me as a mom, it did not feel so long ago that I was on her side and yet here I was with my own rising 5th graders about to leave. Maybe someday I will find the job I want that gives me summer freedoms to do camp again and we can be there together.

In any case, today is about celebrating you and the 11 years  you have lived on this earth and graced my life with your presence. I am so proud of the talented young woman you are. And my biggest worry for you is that you do not see how wonderful you are. I was teary last week at Lakeside watching you in the concert, your heartfelt singing, hand chimes, xylophone and fiddle solo.

I know you do not always feel like this on the inside, but to the world you radiate joy. You are loved by so many people simply because of who you are. My biggest wish for you is that you never forget that.

Maybe Pink says it better…

Pretty, pretty please
Dont you ever, ever feel
Like you’re less than
Fucking perfect

Pretty, pretty please
If you ever, ever feel
Like you’re nothing
You’re fucking perfect to me

I honestly did not think it would be an easy process.

When the minivan that we have had for two years recently visited our trusty mechanic he informed us that it would not pass inspection next time around because it was too rusty.  On top of that, we did not have a set of summer tires and were driving around on our studded snow tires still. This is both crazy loud and probably illegal.

Knowing that we planned to again drive to Lakeside for our family vacation with RP’s family, there was really only one choice. Buy a new car.

RP and I  have really different tastes  in cars. My fantasy car is a loaded Chevy Suburban. His is a mini-cooper, or something as small. He is not impressed at bells and whistles. I admittedly am.  He is more frugal and better with money than I am. I was nervous that we would  never agree on a car that would work for us both.

We did some research and really, our options were kind of limited. Trying to avoid being stuck in the mud next year, we needed either a 4 wheel or an all-wheel drive. And with having the three girls we needed that all important third row seat. My loaded Chevy Suburban would have been perfect, but not in the budget this time around.

We narrowed down the choice to two options, a Subaru Tribeca or a Honda Pilot, both used, of course. We looked at a couple websites of local car dealerships and made an appointment with someone we knew at the local Subaru dealership. It felt really nice to have someone we trusted to go through.

In the end while we intended to drive both, we wound up only driving a 2006 Tribeca. After realizing the Pilot had only a bit more cargo space, was slightly bigger and was not as fuel economic, we decided to stay at the Subaru dealership.

The funny thing is that the Tribeca, which now sits in our driveway, is totally tricked out! It has leather seats (the front two are heated), a GPS, a moon roof, DVD player in the back for the kids and goodness knows what else. That is the advantage in buying a used car, I guess. I am also blessed to have a husband with nearly immaculate credit, so getting it after the inevitable, but surprisingly unstressful negotiation was a breeze.

We were able to get an extended warranty that covers just about everything for 4 years and we figure since 2006 is the year that RP and I met, it is good luck.

So when we pull out of our driveway Saturday morning at 6 am with the kids in tow, we will be going in more style than either RP or I have ever had!

In some ways the journey started two years ago, in others twenty-two years ago. Either way, this past week I received my master’s. I spent a week on campus staying in the dorms, meeting my friends that I’d talked to online since June 2009, I gave a presentation on my paper. I was so many things that I’d never been before….confidence, excited, social….it was like I’d not only received an academic degree I had also crossed over some other kind of threshold that I can’t quite name.

My head and my heart are full of things to tell you about it, but I am still now absorbing the experience and trying to articulate some of the feelings for myself.

So for now I’ll say that I can’t quite believe it took me 22 years since receiving my first college degree to get a graduate one. Yet for whatever the multitude of reasons, it was just as it should have been.

I have thought about blogging so many times in the past few weeks. Sitting down and just letting go in this my sacred space on the internet. I’ve not devoted the time or the space. And I have been honestly befuddled about how to capture the depth of and breadth of some of my feelings.

My precious lil moonspun, who is nearly 11 now, has had many emotional ups and downs in the past few weeks. They range from trying to figure out difficult friendships to trying to navigate the truths in her life about her unique family….all pieces of how we all have to figure out who they are.

Thankfully she is in therapy and has a good therapist, who is not quick to diagnose her with any syndromes, symptoms or diseases. Her therapist has had several meetings with just FFO and I and keeps us in the loop.

I feel good that my daughter is learning to identify and articulate her feelings, as shitty as they might make her feel.  Thankfully, she has a copy of the Feelings Book by American Girl which she reads. (This and its companion, the Care and Keeping of You are great books for adolescent girls). So a couple weeks ago, I came into my room after lil moonspun had gone to bed to find our talking journal (it is a journal of sorts that lil m and I write back and forth about stuff, big and small) and an entry I’ll probably never forget. “Mama,” the first line said, “I think I have depreshun” (spelling is not currently her strong point) and it went on to say that she had read about it in her Feelings Book. Next to the journal, the book was marked at the page where it talked about depression and what to do if how you felt matched the list. Now my heart sank on one hand that my beautiful child felt so sad, and yet on the other hand rejoiced that she felt comfortable enough to tell me.

She has since talked to her therapist, her teacher and will soon be starting on some herbal mood enhancers and omega 3′s. This is good.

In the meantime, lil moonspun was feeling disconnected from her teacher, who she loves and they had a heart to heart talk. In which lil moonspun broke down with worry and fear about the financial situation that exists in FFO’s household, which is consistently precarious.

And then just two nights ago, lil m and I were out after her last full day of school. She had had a conflict and was advocating to skip the last day and (not for the first time) to be homeschooled. I once again patiently explained that homeschooling would not remove her need to learn how to deal with people. Then the conversation turned to family and I asked her to tell me how she explains to people her families. She did a very good job of matter of factly describing out household and FFO’s. Then I asked her what she says if people ask why she has 2 moms.

Oh, my friends, I was stunned by her answers.

Because they did not include the simple, well my moms were married and they had me and then they got divorced and eventually they got married again (albeit to men). It’s the truth.

Oh no, I hear her saying things about how FFO and her biological dad, G, were in love and after she was 2, he decided to leave and then because she had known me and my family for a really long time, we took her in and I decided to adopt her and help mama raise her. And at one point she said that she had learned in her bible study that she might not be a ‘real kid’ because FFO and G were not married.

Oh my god. My insides felt icy, but I calmly said, “Oh did FFO tell you that?”

She nodded, with wide eyes, and looked apprehensive.

I could have screamed and cried. It was tempting. But instead I asked her if she would like to hear my version. Which, unlike FFO, has not changed. To me it is so simple to explain to my daughter that I loved her mother once, enough that I got married to her, enough that we decided to build a life together, enough that we changed our names to be the same for when we had children, enough that we decided together to have a baby and that was how she came about. It is not a story I will change. It is my personal history and I own it. The thirteen  years I spent with FFO is part of who I am and it gave me my precious daughter.

I am sensitive to not saying negative things about FFO to lil m for a number of reasons, the first of which is that it is just not helpful. But oh how I wanted to. In fact I was so livid that when I saw FFO the next day I was extra polite to her because otherwise I thought I might punch her in the face.

I have long gotten over the personal hurt that FFO’s new version of our history could provide for me.  In fact, it was a bit more than year ago that FFO and I had an e-mail exchange about it and you can read my rant about that here and another one here. But I will not let her confuse and lie to my daughter. And as I said yet again to several people today I was talking with, it really only makes HER look stupid. Not me. Because I can’t imagine that people believe that bullshit about us having been a “loving contractual family.”

Anyway, what will I do about it? Well…I know that lil moonspun’s therapist will be open to having a meeting with us and I’ll say nothing to her until I am in that safe space. And then, she had better watch out.

I am the bigger person. And I sure hope I am teaching my daughter to be the same.

In 1988, when I was 21 I did something completely different for the summer. I went to work at a camp in Michigan, pretty much in the middle of nowhere on the mitten shaped state. At that time, it was the furthest west I’d ever been.

It was a life-changing summer and I would return to the shores of that amazing place four more summers. I always wished I’d have discovered it as a young person and been able to be a camper there. Outside of the stunning setting and the mile of beach the camp owns, it is well-established program having been there since the 1920′s and thriving still.

In the back of my mind I dreamed of the day I could send my own child there. Last summer, the first time that lil moonspun was old enough, she did not want to consider going. She would not have the conversation at all with me.  So I did not push it.

Early in the winter this year I broached the conversation again and we looked on the website, at the information and videos. We looked at the different sessions and options with dates. Suddenly she was insisting that she wanted to go for 3 weeks. She showed no fear at all. So I looked at the price which was $2500 and applied for a scholarship. I wrote a letter enclosing our financial paperwork explaining why it was only me who would be paying for it. I admit that I hoped and probably assumed that because I’d been a leader there they’d give me lots of money.

The letter came offering me a $500 scholarship. I nearly cried. There was no way to make it work. None. Lil moonspun was crushed. We looked at the possibility of going for a week, but the transportation costs for that were crazy.  We live in Vermont and the camp is in Michigan.

We let go of the dream, I mourned that my child would not get to go to such an amazing place. It felt unfair.

Then two weeks ago, out of the blue I got an e-mail from the registrar.  They had some extra money and could offer lil moonspun a nearly full scholarship. Could she still come?

It suddenly seemed like fate that we had only talked about other camp options, but not put any deposits down yet.

After talking to lil m, I wrote back enthusiastically YES, she would come and we were thrilled.

So now my 10 year old will turn 11 away from her family having a new adventure. She will go to a place where she knows no one at all at first. And I know she will have a life-changing time. I can just feel it.

I’ll drive her there from our vacation in Ohio with RP’s family and now am trying to figure out the logistics of picking her up. Today I researched a train which seems like a pretty darn affordable option.

Last night we looked at my photo album from 1989 when I had the best cabin of kids in my 5 years there. Then I found a few of my old shirts from the camp and lil moonspun picked two to bring with her.

I myself am excited to drop her off and pick her up because it has been 15 years since I’ve been able to visit the camp. I know some things have changed and it will be great to see it again.

Most of all, though, I am proud of my lil moonspun. She seems so intrepid about the adventure. I know part of  her is nervous, but it’s much more of an excited kind of nervous. She has struggled a bit socially in school and I honestly think this is the perfect year for her to go to a place where no on knows her. She can start again, find out who she is and who she wants to be in a place that really encourages that. She can have a camp experience entirely different than her school friends.  I think she needs that.

All in all, lil moonspun will be gone from Vermont for the entire month of July…what a wonderful opportunity!

Did you go to camp when  you were young?

Please indulge me in a work of fiction….thank you… Moonspun

The Porch

Our lives were supposed to be different you and I.

I can remember when I’d daydream about it while driving to work. How I’d watch you and think about our future. I could see the possibilities so clearly.  Back then they seemed so much more than possibilities for me. They were our someday, our future, our destiny. My heart never questioned it.  It simply was. Because. Of Course.

We were going to live near each other, if not together, with a gaggle of people, a blend of the unique, the unexplainable. We would have children and raise them together.

We would have found the perfect house for us both, would have easily afforded it and bought them seamlessly. Or maybe we’d have bought land together and each picked a spot to build on. Maybe we’d each have rambling porches. But no matter where, we’d be able to see each other, we’d need that reassurance; we’d want that comfort. It simply would be.

I imagine your house would be a bold color, maybe that scarlet red you love so much, with black trim.  It would exude that edgy strong sense of you. The part I envy and want to emulate, but never can. The house would be classic and bold and obviously the subject of some speculation among the neighbors. You would both expect and love that and not really give a crap on the other hand.

I imagine mine would be yellow because I’ve always wanted a yellow house and maybe it would have green trim or maroon if I left you talk me into it. It would be softer, more subtle than yours because I’ve never possessed your outward courage and “I-don’t-give-a-damn” attitude.

Both our porches would be covered with Adirondack chairs, swings and gliders and the steps would be worn from the flow of visits between back and forth.

Our lives would be hopelessly and naturally intertwined.  Because. Of course.

Our families would meld back and forth in a natural rhythm, kids would pour out of one house and into another, during all seasons. Mudrooms would be draped with flip flops, sunscreen and towels in the summer, umbrellas and mudboots in the spring, wool sweaters and socks in the crisp fall and piles of scarves, mittens and plush boots in the winter.

Sometimes at night we’d sit together, in warmer weather on a porch, in cooler in our living rooms. You’d knit and I’d read. You’d talk about gardening and cooking. I’d read and once again wish I was as talented as you. Sometimes we would not talk at all. We wouldn’t need to.

We would have found flexible fulfilling professions, maybe you would be a healer, maybe I would write.

We would not be everyday partners to each other, somehow that would be too ordinary, too risky. Instead we would have partners that would understand the bond between us…or maybe, it could be better said that they would know it wasn’t necessarily something to understand, question, or analyze. It simply was. Because. Of course.

Most importantly they would understand that our connection was vital and essential to us both. That you would always be my soul-sister, and my source of inner strength. That this was present in the every day, and was inexplicable, yet vital bond would benefit those around us as much as it did the two of us.

Our bond would be present in the simple tasks of life. How we interacted in the everyday. How our families all cooked dinner together regularly. How we carpooled and shuffled the families. How we shared the daily grind. How there was no question of support in a time of crisis.

But sometimes, in the dark of the night, when the world was quiet and perfectly still, we would come together. We would intertwine in an intimacy so poignant it was hard to speak of or talk about in the light of day. Sometimes it seemed that the starlight above would twinkle with the very act of us coming together.  I would drink the sweet nectar of you, taste your essence and it would refuel my soul in a way that I so desperately needed. On those nights I would shatter into pieces and be brought whole by you. You would pour your angst into me and I would mold it into courage to give back to you.

My soul and the essence of me would need this in order to survive. Making love to you would be essential to my very being and a fountain of strength to draw on.

Yet in the light of day it would not be necessary to talk of this. It simply was.  Because. Of course.

There might be hints of it when we sat on your porch watching the sunset and I’d catch your eye, your long black hair glowing, or when we’d accidentally brush hands while cooking together. Often my heart would swell with complete satisfaction and aching need.

In the cold reality of the grey dawn as I write, I feel too old for such dreams now. Maybe I know better that this life I imagined for us could be real. Maybe I am afraid that I missed the chance, that it is my fault.

Yet in the lives we now lead the way that I need you is still there. And I think it always will be, unspoken and somehow understood.

Because. Of course.