When I left Austin, I sold my house and my possessions, I quit my jobs and said goodbye to friends to be with you in Colorado. I had no doubts. I did not look back when we drove down my street that December day in the moving truck. You, Kira, and I – the wind in our hair, the future at our fingertips, and the past in our back pockets. I didn't have a fear in the world. Neither did you. We were so sure this was the right path for us. Nothing could go wrong. We were so incredibly in love. We were so incredibly happy. And it stayed that way.
Fast forward one year. It is almost Christmas. I live in your house with your ghost. I am on unstable ground. The man I love is gone. My best friend is dust. My security is ripped out from under me. I am in disbelief. I am uncertain about my ability to move forward in life. I don't know how I will ever be happy again. I am uninspired by anything I'd ever been inspired by, except for you. But amidst my depression and confusion, the world is reminding me with a pearly white smile that it's Christmas time.
I have stepped into an even darker place in my grief, but the world around me is still spinning. Christmas trees are going up. People are still getting married. Pregnant friends are giving birth. Holiday parties are happening. Workers are getting their year end bonuses. Yoga friends are sticking new poses and being inspired by new Rumi quotes. But my world isn't like their world anymore. I no longer want to hear about their children's Christmas recital. I don't want to hear about the holiday cookie recipe. I don't care about a new haircut. I don't give a shit what's the special on the dinner menu. I don't want to know how to make a crafty Christmas tree out of books.
It is all so pointless without you.
I think about a year ago. Soon after we arrived in Boulder, we decided to put up a Christmas tree. We went to choose one at a farm. I drank apple cider and you drank tea. We carried the cups in our mittened hands. I wanted a huge tree and you wanted to make me happy – but really, you wanted a small live tree. So we got two: a huge cut tree and a small live tree in a pot. We decided we would plant the live tree after the holiday. We would buy a live one every year and create a little forest of them all on our land. That way someday, when our family grew, we could show the kids our own little Christmas tree farm and we could add to it together.
The afternoon we brought our tree home, we set it up in our living room. I played Michael Buble and Mariah Carey Christmas carols and you didn't complain. You sang along. We made eggnog cocktails while we decorated the tree. I made the first round and we decided you would make the next. We would make it an eggnog cocktail competition! You wrapped the lights around our gigantic Douglas Fir. We sipped our cocktails, danced to the music together, and began to unwrap decorations. For a Jew, I have quite the Christmas collection. You listened to my stories about each ornament. I had purchased a new one every year for Kira. We looped metal hooks through glass bulbs and climbed the ladder to place the decorations all around our tree, working together to find bald spots and keeping the colors consistent. I took a photo of you decorating the tree and texted it to your mom.
After we finished our first round of cocktails, you headed into the kitchen to try to top my holiday cheer concoction. I heard the blender going from the living room and wandered in to see what was going on. The countertop was scattered with bottles. You had mixed Jack Daniels Honey, Brandy, Tres Leches liqueur, organic eggnog, and Himalayan sea salt – with a cinnamon and nutmeg garnish. Your cocktail was undoubtedly the winner.
We sipped our second round, allowing the strong liquor to warm our bones. We continued to decorate – the tree sparkled with blue, silver, and gold bulbs – an homage to my tribal heritage. You made fun of me because I wanted our tree to look like it was fresh out of a catalog. I had suggested we put all the goofy ornaments on the small live tree so they wouldn't offend our big classy tree. You rolled your eyes, but concurred.
At some point that night we came up with the ingenious idea for an impromptu holiday party. We decided we would have a huge bash the next week and invite dozens of friends. It would be an 80s theme and everyone would wear white. Sometime around this time, I made a third round of drinks that involved strawberry ice cream, coffee liquor, and eggnog – obviously we were getting quite drunk. We took a break from decorating to start designing an invitation for the party.
We never sent out the invites that night. When we woke up the next morning fuzzy from eggnog cocktails, we realized the party was probably not the best idea. But while our heads were a bit sore, the tree looked fantastic.
We also never planted the small live tree. We left it inside the house through the Spring. You watered it regularly but it slowly died. We put it out on our deck and it's still there today. It's a dead skeleton of brittle sticks. Maybe the little tree knew we wouldn't get to celebrate a second Christmas together.
As I wrap gifts for next week's holiday, I think about all the things I was going to get you – a new hardware case for your drums, a cahone, new cashmere sweaters. You had hinted that Santa was bringing me a new laptop, mine was on its last leg. And yet, the getting and gifting is so incessant now. Because all I want for Christmas is you. The traditions seem broken. Because they were to be carried out with you. Children's laughter seems like a cruel joke. It was supposed to blossom into our children's laughter. Every store I walk in has a soundtrack that offends me with cheer. Holiday movies swarm the channels and remind me of how sad it is to not snuggle up next to you to.
So here I sit alone, paralyzed by this loss, while the world still twirls around me. I thought nothing could go wrong. I was so sure.
Showing posts with label move. Show all posts
Showing posts with label move. Show all posts
Destination Boulder
It's cold and snowy today. Winter has arrived. It's more frigid then ever.
When I moved to Colorado to be with you, we drove a moving truck from Austin to Boulder. I remember pulling away from my home in Austin. A home I had bought by myself and then sold two years later, because I knew the right thing to do was be with you. I remember a little tear traveling down my cheek as we turned off Lowdes Drive in Austin. The house no longer was my home, but it contained some very beautiful memories that were bittersweet to leave. My home was with you. And that felt very right.
You, Kira, and I all sat in the moving truck, three-across. It was December 1st, 2013. We towed my blue Honda CRV behind the Budget truck. Kira sat between us and whined with excitement as we drove past all her favorite parks, walks, and rivers. Then the scenery became unfamiliar and she laid down. We continued traveling through Texas that day. The Hill Country turned to tumbleweed and dry, flat plains.
Somewhere around Lubbock the truck's gas light came on. We anticipated how far ahead of us the next gas station would be. West Texas was pretty uncharted territory for us. We each had made this drive once before with other people. We shared stories about little towns, taverns, and sights we'd seen along the way, but neither of us remembered the distance between fill-ups.
You knew there was a gas station 30 miles behind us. "I think we should turn back," you said. You were always cautious. I was unconvinced, "There has to be one up ahead soon. Let's chance it." You said OK and we continued on. The gas gauge sank lower as the mile markers added up. We passed a sign for a town. There would be a gas station in 32 miles. "Shit," I said, "Do you think we'll make it?" "I don't know," you said with concern. You switched off the music and air conditioning. "At least we're together!" We agreed.
Sixteen miles later we ran out of gas. The truck chugged to a stop on the side of the road.
This was one of those situations that could cause an argument in a relationship. You had suggested turning back and we both knew we would have made it if I had heeded your advice. But I hadn't. I am not the type of adventurer who likes to turn back. I like to forge ahead to uncharted territory and risk tripping and falling. We didn't argue.
Somehow, this situation became funny to us, a bump in the road that we would always remember. We unhooked the CRV, you backed it off the trailer, and I hopped in to drive the fourteen miles to the closest gas station ahead. You stayed with the truck and decided Kira would get a long walk on the side of the highway while you waited for me to return. I remember driving fast. I didn't want to be away from you on our journey forward. On our journey to our new together-home. I remember the woman at the first gas station I went to. She was petite and hispanic, she told me they were out of gas cans. She was emotionless. Her bored attitude made me even more excited to get back to you, my fellow adventurer. I thought about how much I loved you. I felt my whole body reminding me of how this move was the best decision I had ever made in twenty-nine years of living.
I went to another gas station and filled up two cans. I placed them in the back of the packed CRV and made my way back to you. I thought of you, alone on the side of the highway. I went ten-miles over the speed limit. The inside of the car smelled like gas. I imagined myself passing out from the fumes, so I rolled down the windows. After what seemed like a long time, I saw the moving truck up ahead. You: tall, handsome, and peaceful walking Kira on her leash. She was sniffing something. You were undaunted by the gas glitch. You looked happy. I pulled a U-turn and parked behind you. I jumped out of the car and ran up to you. I apologized for the delay, kissed you, and told you that I'd missed you. I hadn't learned what missing you was really like.
The rest of our drive went smoothly until we got to Boulder the next evening. We arrived to Boulder in the midst of the first big winter storm. Huge snowflakes pummeled the windshield of the moving truck. I thanked you and the Universe that you were driving. We arrived into Boulder from the south. It seemed like the drive from campus to north Boulder was nearly as long as the trek from Texas. I was so excited to arrive at my new house. We were so close.
We pulled onto Lee Hill Drive, the road leading to our house, and were stopped by a police car. Lee Hill was closed for the time being. We couldn't go any further. We were two miles away from home and we had to stop. The city-girl in me was shocked. "Isn't there another way? How can they just stop us? What about all the people who need to get back to their houses? There must be a way?" I asked. "We just have to wait, babe," you said calmly. You were used to snowy mountain roads and the delays that ensued.
We grabbed some food down the road. Kira slept in the truck, or maybe she stared out the window at the snow which she hadn't seen in four years. Eventually, the snow let up and we were able to make our way down Lee Hill a couple hours later. You were concerned about driving the truck up the hairpin-turning-steep-hill to the house. You knew how much I wanted to get that truck into that driveway, to make the move complete. You decided to go for it.
We punched in the security code and passed through the gate into our neighborhood. Within one-hundred yards, the moving truck and the trailer behind it slid backwards into a ditch on the side of the road, in the dark. We were stuck, again, one mile from the house. Once again, we should have listened to your instinct rather than my impatience. We unhooked the CRV and drove it up the hill to the house. The truck would have to wait.
It took three days, a wrecker tow truck, two trips to the autoparts store, and two different types of chains to get the moving truck up the hill to the house. But finally, all my stuff arrived and I, along with all my shit, were home.
I had packed a housewarming gift for you in the truck. So it wasn't until the truck arrived that I was able to give it to you. It was just something small. You opened up the gift: a long-winded card, bubbling with excitment, and a crystal rainbow maker to hang in a window. A way to refract the sunlight and bounce optical illusions of color all over our home – showing us our togetherness and our full spectrum of love all over the walls. I still look for you in those rainbows, my love.
I think about your patience and your unconditional love every minute of every day. The house was always warm when you were in it, no matter how cold it was outside. Snowflakes were exciting, because it meant maybe we'd get stuck somewhere together, unable to move forward with our day and responsibilities. We'd get to hit pause. We'd get to cuddle up and watch the flakes pile. We'd get to see the sunlight shimmer on the white snow, maybe casting a rainbow. We'd get to wrap ourselves in each others warmth. It's really cold down here in the snowstorm without you.
When I moved to Colorado to be with you, we drove a moving truck from Austin to Boulder. I remember pulling away from my home in Austin. A home I had bought by myself and then sold two years later, because I knew the right thing to do was be with you. I remember a little tear traveling down my cheek as we turned off Lowdes Drive in Austin. The house no longer was my home, but it contained some very beautiful memories that were bittersweet to leave. My home was with you. And that felt very right.
You, Kira, and I all sat in the moving truck, three-across. It was December 1st, 2013. We towed my blue Honda CRV behind the Budget truck. Kira sat between us and whined with excitement as we drove past all her favorite parks, walks, and rivers. Then the scenery became unfamiliar and she laid down. We continued traveling through Texas that day. The Hill Country turned to tumbleweed and dry, flat plains.
Somewhere around Lubbock the truck's gas light came on. We anticipated how far ahead of us the next gas station would be. West Texas was pretty uncharted territory for us. We each had made this drive once before with other people. We shared stories about little towns, taverns, and sights we'd seen along the way, but neither of us remembered the distance between fill-ups.
You knew there was a gas station 30 miles behind us. "I think we should turn back," you said. You were always cautious. I was unconvinced, "There has to be one up ahead soon. Let's chance it." You said OK and we continued on. The gas gauge sank lower as the mile markers added up. We passed a sign for a town. There would be a gas station in 32 miles. "Shit," I said, "Do you think we'll make it?" "I don't know," you said with concern. You switched off the music and air conditioning. "At least we're together!" We agreed.
Sixteen miles later we ran out of gas. The truck chugged to a stop on the side of the road.
This was one of those situations that could cause an argument in a relationship. You had suggested turning back and we both knew we would have made it if I had heeded your advice. But I hadn't. I am not the type of adventurer who likes to turn back. I like to forge ahead to uncharted territory and risk tripping and falling. We didn't argue.
Somehow, this situation became funny to us, a bump in the road that we would always remember. We unhooked the CRV, you backed it off the trailer, and I hopped in to drive the fourteen miles to the closest gas station ahead. You stayed with the truck and decided Kira would get a long walk on the side of the highway while you waited for me to return. I remember driving fast. I didn't want to be away from you on our journey forward. On our journey to our new together-home. I remember the woman at the first gas station I went to. She was petite and hispanic, she told me they were out of gas cans. She was emotionless. Her bored attitude made me even more excited to get back to you, my fellow adventurer. I thought about how much I loved you. I felt my whole body reminding me of how this move was the best decision I had ever made in twenty-nine years of living.
I went to another gas station and filled up two cans. I placed them in the back of the packed CRV and made my way back to you. I thought of you, alone on the side of the highway. I went ten-miles over the speed limit. The inside of the car smelled like gas. I imagined myself passing out from the fumes, so I rolled down the windows. After what seemed like a long time, I saw the moving truck up ahead. You: tall, handsome, and peaceful walking Kira on her leash. She was sniffing something. You were undaunted by the gas glitch. You looked happy. I pulled a U-turn and parked behind you. I jumped out of the car and ran up to you. I apologized for the delay, kissed you, and told you that I'd missed you. I hadn't learned what missing you was really like.
The rest of our drive went smoothly until we got to Boulder the next evening. We arrived to Boulder in the midst of the first big winter storm. Huge snowflakes pummeled the windshield of the moving truck. I thanked you and the Universe that you were driving. We arrived into Boulder from the south. It seemed like the drive from campus to north Boulder was nearly as long as the trek from Texas. I was so excited to arrive at my new house. We were so close.
We pulled onto Lee Hill Drive, the road leading to our house, and were stopped by a police car. Lee Hill was closed for the time being. We couldn't go any further. We were two miles away from home and we had to stop. The city-girl in me was shocked. "Isn't there another way? How can they just stop us? What about all the people who need to get back to their houses? There must be a way?" I asked. "We just have to wait, babe," you said calmly. You were used to snowy mountain roads and the delays that ensued.
We grabbed some food down the road. Kira slept in the truck, or maybe she stared out the window at the snow which she hadn't seen in four years. Eventually, the snow let up and we were able to make our way down Lee Hill a couple hours later. You were concerned about driving the truck up the hairpin-turning-steep-hill to the house. You knew how much I wanted to get that truck into that driveway, to make the move complete. You decided to go for it.
We punched in the security code and passed through the gate into our neighborhood. Within one-hundred yards, the moving truck and the trailer behind it slid backwards into a ditch on the side of the road, in the dark. We were stuck, again, one mile from the house. Once again, we should have listened to your instinct rather than my impatience. We unhooked the CRV and drove it up the hill to the house. The truck would have to wait.
It took three days, a wrecker tow truck, two trips to the autoparts store, and two different types of chains to get the moving truck up the hill to the house. But finally, all my stuff arrived and I, along with all my shit, were home.
I had packed a housewarming gift for you in the truck. So it wasn't until the truck arrived that I was able to give it to you. It was just something small. You opened up the gift: a long-winded card, bubbling with excitment, and a crystal rainbow maker to hang in a window. A way to refract the sunlight and bounce optical illusions of color all over our home – showing us our togetherness and our full spectrum of love all over the walls. I still look for you in those rainbows, my love.
I think about your patience and your unconditional love every minute of every day. The house was always warm when you were in it, no matter how cold it was outside. Snowflakes were exciting, because it meant maybe we'd get stuck somewhere together, unable to move forward with our day and responsibilities. We'd get to hit pause. We'd get to cuddle up and watch the flakes pile. We'd get to see the sunlight shimmer on the white snow, maybe casting a rainbow. We'd get to wrap ourselves in each others warmth. It's really cold down here in the snowstorm without you.
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