Closure

And it was a time of great vulnerability.  But I didn't know it then.


Because at age 20, away at college, and in love with the future, I couldn't see anything but hope and sex and an unwavering commitment to idealism and reverie.



So we danced around reality—he and I—and played family in the rental in Davis, walking my dogs, having coffee and drinking Bailey’s—becoming grown-ups—playing Scrabble while blasting Led Zeppelin 4, and spending lazy Saturdays listening to the SF Giants game on AM radio, with him working on his 1967 Mercury Cougar in homemade t-shirts satirizing society (“I DON’T work out at Golds’ Gym” or “I’m High On Crack”). Living a love story.



For it was love, even when seen in the shade of the past, and we were perfectly timed, walking in the dreamland of youth towards a world free from our dysfunctional families—his kind-hearted dad killing himself with alcohol, my family shattering almost the very minute we met--living life within a self-propelled sweetness that our families hadn't modeled, him leaving funny poems on my pillow in the morning (“your eyes are the color of pond algae”) and me writing my first name alongside his last in my Cognitive Psychology notebook.



Then October 17, 1989, the earthquake stirred what I’d been pushing away. A life spent tiptoeing around family anger, protecting what I thought would last forever until the inevitable implosion when I'd left for college--dad crying in the armchair, mom telling me not to come home anymore—and resulting hinterland as dad moved out, and mom became unstable, making Alex do the Ouija board until that day Alex snapped and--petrified of what would happen should mom’s heart break--I tried to fix things but even the earth knew it was too late, and tossed the house down the hill, making everything cockeyed and wobbly, and smelling of the remnants of a dead family, rotting food from the tipped fridge, moldy water, smashed perfume bottles, the beloved Angel fish lying dead on the floor.



And it was done. And my guarded heart could not come back from it. And in the breakups aftermath, he cried—tears on the lashes of lovely hazel-blue eyes—and asked me why I had to leave, believing I guess that I would actually have an answer even though I didn’t know anything, and wouldn’t, not for 27 years. THIS year.



Because for so many years I could not stop thoughts of him, and danced around a feeling of grief for what I’d turned away from—dreaming of him at night--and struggling with near-crippling confusion at being irrevocably chained to an ever-distant past, spending my marriage in violent lust for the intimate connection that he and I had as we huddled together in warmth and humor to face the world’s abuse.



For it was magic. Truly. That time. And remains so, delivering us both as it did from trauma of our childhoods and into the safety of another experience, wherein two tender-souls stepped gingerly into love and happiness, and witnessed in each other soul-affirming kindness, tentatively allowing ourselves to believe in things that we’d never before personally experienced, and embracing a naivete and sweetness so seductive that at 47 years of age I can taste and smell the impossible magic that it was.



And even in the shadow of 27 years of confusion, and the reflection of a million lifetimes, I know now that he was worth everything. All the pain and all the confusion. Because all these years later, I see through the darkness, and know exactly why he came into my life, and in the still quiet of the night, as I dream of another, I can open my heart and love beyond measure. For he loved me and I loved him, and in reflecting goodness back to one another, we walked together through the shadows of grief.



And on this, his birthday—February 28, his 48th--I just wanted to say:

 

 

Happy Birthday, Steve. You were a safe place in a terrible storm. Thank you—my beautiful friend--for showing me how to love myself.

Comments 4

 
Virginia M Macasaet on Monday, 29 February 2016 23:29

Beautiful Amy!!! Deep heartfelt writing and sharing, thank you. Full circle! Bless your journey, bless his!

Beautiful Amy!!! Deep heartfelt writing and sharing, thank you. Full circle! Bless your journey, bless his!
Amy Brook Palleson on Tuesday, 01 March 2016 00:16

Yes, yes, Rina!! Bless HIS journey, he of the kindest heart. I will not reveal more lest he himself read these comments but I have rooted for him in mind and soul for all these years, and will forever, I'm sure. I feel about him as I do my kids, and would not exist as I am were he not part of my life during that crucial time.

Thank you so much for reading and commenting.

Yes, yes, Rina!! Bless HIS journey, he of the kindest heart. I will not reveal more lest he himself read these comments but I have rooted for him in mind and soul for all these years, and will forever, I'm sure. I feel about him as I do my kids, and would not exist as I am were he not part of my life during that crucial time. Thank you so much for reading and commenting.
Katherine Gregor on Tuesday, 01 March 2016 16:48

Sone people come into our lives as precious gifts that we treasure long after our paths diverge. What a wonderful friend and teacher. I'll bet he also treasures all you have given him.

Sone people come into our lives as precious gifts that we treasure long after our paths diverge. What a wonderful friend and teacher. I'll bet he also treasures all you have given him.
Amy Brook Palleson on Monday, 14 March 2016 13:18

Katherine, he was a great teacher, I just didn't know it until recently. Of course, now that I've realized, I can't imagine how I never saw it before. Hard to see; impossible to unsee. :) Perhaps that's the Universe's way of preventing ego-filled humans from mucking it all up.

Thanks for commenting. :)

Katherine, he was a great teacher, I just didn't know it until recently. Of course, now that I've realized, I can't imagine how I never saw it before. Hard to see; impossible to unsee. :) Perhaps that's the Universe's way of preventing ego-filled humans from mucking it all up. Thanks for commenting. :)
Already Registered? Login Here
Guest
Friday, 24 November 2017

Captcha Image

Latest Comments

Monika Schott A rickety bridge
18 November 2017
Thanks, Di.
Diane Rampertshammer A rickety bridge
17 November 2017
Pure poetry - very evocative - you are a painter with words..Di
Ken Hartke Lamenting the Lost Art of Conversation
12 November 2017
Thanks for the comments. Rosy -- I look at this sort of social conversation as a healthful thing for...
Rosy Cole First Song
12 November 2017
This is almost like a memory of birth, reviving those sensations, but translated in imagistic terms....
Rosy Cole Lamenting the Lost Art of Conversation
12 November 2017
Oh Ken, how rare that is! A gift. What a lovely sojourn in the byways and an unexpected exchange of ...

Latest Blogs

                                                         The fading season —                             when all the trees have darkened           ...
      'I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.' Virginia Woolf     I know w...
A slow sway pinches out a crying creak. It wavers and reverberates, motions in the belly as a slug of up and down. Yet there’s no whiff of breeze on...
Although I had admired a lovely large tree across our lake with yellow leaves for a couple of weeks, I kept wanting to see some reds and bright orange...
                To that which moves, to that which moves,          Which penetrates the universal shine         And shimmy, Roundabout, wh...