I visited my hometown, Toledo, this weekend for a 48 hour whirlwind celebration of my dear Nannie's 90th birthday. Visits home have always seeped in nostalgia for me. I tend to remember the 'old days', when in retrospect, I seemed carefree; problems were scant and life plans were allowed to just be pipe-dreams. I left Toledo (for the second time) after ending a long relationship and being laid off six years ago. The city was in a depression: doors were closing, businesses were shrinking, and citizens' attitudes reflected the decline. Since I've left, I've often referred to Toledo as 'Detroit's runoff' with a sardonic 'I'm so glad I got out of there' attitude. It was cast as a place of 'endings' in my book.
I've been buried in a gloomy hole bleeding death and loss for the past seven months. Seeing light is desperately hard. But the past few days, I was confronted with life and growth from the most unexpected place. Toledo taught me a lesson.
I saw a city that is healing her wounds. Doors of closed businesses downtown are opening up as juice bars and trendy condos. Conscious options are popping up next to the Del Tacos and McDonald's. I visited three yoga studios and was delighted by the powerful teachers, thoughtful sequences, and jam-packed classes. Waistlines are shrinking, consciousness is expanding, and smokers are quitting.
Beyond the city herself blossoming after a long, cold winter – I saw life in her people. While death may mysteriously and unabashedly take too soon... sometimes he is patient. He holds off – allowing many to think sharply, move healthily, and breathe longer. My grandmother was surrounded by more members of our family then ever. So much growth has taken place: a new era of young life has sprung from my generation (the ones I still think of as 'the kids'). Babies are growing, crawling, and discovering. Children are playfully coming into their own. Young boys are becoming men who look like their fathers. I was reminded of long-time friendships that continue to sparkle and swell. I was touched by new connections and possibility. I was grateful for bittersweet conversation, laughter, tears of remembrance, and support.
Toledo's forecast is often grey and cloudy. But this past weekend, her sun shined warm and her sky was blue. She dazzled as a reminder of the 'little engine that could'. When one is thrashed into the pit of suffering, she is often blinded from hope. The cycles of life/death, beginning/endings, and growth/decline are infinite and as old as time. But without darkness there is no way to see light. The light crept in from under the crack of the door of the most unforeseen place. Thank you, Toledo.
Showing posts with label city. Show all posts
Showing posts with label city. Show all posts
Moonlight and Momentum
I drove home tonight and looked up at the moon. As I saw the moonshine cast upon the fresh snow making my path home sparkle, my heart felt heavy. My heart is always heavy these days. But as I noticed the moon, it became even weightier. I wondered if I would ever look at the moon with joy again. Now, when I see the moon I am taken back to that night. The night I drove to the hospital in the back of my Audi, with a policeman driving. I stared at the moon. We were following your ambulance. I hadn't cried yet at that point. Adrenaline was surging. When I'd seen you wheeled out of our front door, on a stretcher, they'd said you had a faint pulse. There was hope. I stared at the moon. My mind raced. I thought of so many things and somehow also nothing at all. I clutched something. I don't remember what it was. My purse? My phone? Your wallet? Kevin's hand? A stone? I don't know. But I know I was looking at the moon. I know I was praying to the moon.
Now, I go days without opening the blinds in our bedroom. I turn my back on beauty because it hurts my eyes. I still say my gratitude prayer, like we did nightly while we admired the view from our room – but I can't look anymore. I avert my eyes from the glittering citylights, the acres of pines, and the moonlit scape. The beauty taunts my heavy heart. Some nights I sleep in another room, distancing myself from the comfort of what it felt like to be so loved.
It's been four months since you left this Earth. It's been four months of daily tears, barely coping, chasing my tail in slow circles, and living in a womb of confusion. Not a day goes by when I don't walk into our bedroom and expect you to be sitting casually between the sheets. My ignorance irritates me, but I guess somehow I still live in disbelief. You would have a book in your hands and a tired, sly smile on your face. You would pat the mattress to your right – my spot. I'd bounce into bed and kiss your cheek, lovingly. Reaching over and flirtatiously removing the book from in between your hands, I'd dogear your page and set it down on your nightstand. As you laid down on your back, I'd slide on top of you. You'd reach over your left shoulder and flick off the light. The sounds of our love would be the last noises we'd make that night. The moon would cast silent flickers on our walls from between the slivers of blinds – the night's voyeur.
And yet, every time I walk into our bedroom, you are not there.
I know there is no set pace for grief. There is no seven-minute-mile that I can train for to speed up this pain. But, honestly, I think this is a process I don't want to speed up. Some days, I'm all grief. Head to toe, can't get out of bed, immoveable sadness. But most days, I'm all over the place – neither here nor there. Sometimes my arms are stretching forward but my feet are stuck in quicksand. Sometimes my body is full-speed ahead, but my heart is pumping backwards. Sometimes I dress myself up in a pretty package – sparkly paper, bright red lips, stiletto Louboutins, and a bow on my head – but the box is empty. I've never felt so off-kilter and I've never felt so slow.
I used to feel an emotion and know what it was I was experiencing. It's something we learn as infants. I get pricked, "Ow!" I feel pain. I see a smile, "Yay!" I feel joy. I am given a hug, "Aw!" I feel love. I am spooked, "Ah!" I feel fear. But now, my emotions are a snowball. I can no long decipher one emotion from another. I am hurt. I am not just upset, instead I feel all the feelings. I am given a wonderful gift. I do not feel just gratitude, instead I feel all the feelings. I drink three glasses of wine, now I really feel all the feelings. It's exhausting to not be able to pinpoint your own emotions. Particularly because you and I used to communicate so clearly about the way we felt, what we were experiencing, and why. Now, I know nothing. I just know I am sad, I feel gratitude, I feel love, I feel panic, I feel anger, I feel loss, I feel fucking everything. This is the first time in my life when there are days when I think, 'Damn. Can someone just give me a pill so I stop feeling so fucking much?!'
It's been four months. People ask me big questions. Where will you go from here? What's next for you? Today, I moved a pile of your stuff from the den to the studio. I saw your drum kit and I fell to the floor. I crawled to your throne and I pulled myself onto it. I sat behind your kit and listened to the sound it made when my tears hit the snare, then the tom, then the snare, and then the tom. As I sat, listening to my percussion beat of sadness, I struggled with frustration. I am used to moving with momentum. I'm used to accomplishing tasks with determination and pace. I'm used to answering the big questions with gusto and knowing. But now, in this place, I can't. I'm moving in slow motion and I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. I don't know anything. And I can't answer any questions, theirs or mine.
I moved three things today – a pile, a box, and a rug. And that was accomplishing a lot. Because with each movement comes reminders of what was and what will not be.
I moved the pile and had to confront the drum kit.
I moved the box and discovered what was inside – hundreds of old letters, notes, and cards. You had saved over two decades of correspondence. I got lost in your world. It made me sad because I wanted you to be able to be there with me, telling me the stories behind each letter. I read love notes from teenage girlfriends who I can't remember if you ever told me about. I wanted to read those love notes and hear your subtext. I wanted to hear about where those girls are now and smile because they loved you in a time before I knew I loved you. It makes me happy to know you were loved. I thought about the decades of love notes that I had planned to write to you and that you were supposed to save in those same boxes... and then more boxes because you would run out of space in the box you had. I saw all the letters your mom sent you. She wrote you at camp when you were a kid. She wrote you a poem when you graduated high school. She sent you birthday cards each year. She sent you letters just because. But now that you're gone, she can't write you anymore. I thought of all the boxes that would go unfilled.
I swapped a rug that I didn't like with one I found in storage that I did like. And for the rest of the day, every time I walk through the room, I stop and wonder if you would like it there. I consider switching the old rug back just to keep the room how it was when you were here. I am living in your catacomb and I can't fathom leaving.
Change is inevitable, but it is taxing. Movement is unavoidable, but momentum is rare. Big questions loom, but there are no answers in sight.
I drove home tonight and looked up at the moon. It was a crescent shape. I noticed how it looked like a ladle that could hold anything and just let a slow drip spill out. I imagined you, as an mischievous angel, balancing yourself dexterously on its crescent ridges. You always loved to climb things. I tried to look at the moon with something other than disappointment, 'I prayed to you and you let me down...' I tried to look at the moon the way you and I looked at it when we admired the view from our bedroom window. But, I couldn't. I averted my eyes. It hurt, as if I had stared at the sun for too long. I'm simply not there yet. Instead, I am here, feeling it all.
Now, I go days without opening the blinds in our bedroom. I turn my back on beauty because it hurts my eyes. I still say my gratitude prayer, like we did nightly while we admired the view from our room – but I can't look anymore. I avert my eyes from the glittering citylights, the acres of pines, and the moonlit scape. The beauty taunts my heavy heart. Some nights I sleep in another room, distancing myself from the comfort of what it felt like to be so loved.
It's been four months since you left this Earth. It's been four months of daily tears, barely coping, chasing my tail in slow circles, and living in a womb of confusion. Not a day goes by when I don't walk into our bedroom and expect you to be sitting casually between the sheets. My ignorance irritates me, but I guess somehow I still live in disbelief. You would have a book in your hands and a tired, sly smile on your face. You would pat the mattress to your right – my spot. I'd bounce into bed and kiss your cheek, lovingly. Reaching over and flirtatiously removing the book from in between your hands, I'd dogear your page and set it down on your nightstand. As you laid down on your back, I'd slide on top of you. You'd reach over your left shoulder and flick off the light. The sounds of our love would be the last noises we'd make that night. The moon would cast silent flickers on our walls from between the slivers of blinds – the night's voyeur.
And yet, every time I walk into our bedroom, you are not there.
I know there is no set pace for grief. There is no seven-minute-mile that I can train for to speed up this pain. But, honestly, I think this is a process I don't want to speed up. Some days, I'm all grief. Head to toe, can't get out of bed, immoveable sadness. But most days, I'm all over the place – neither here nor there. Sometimes my arms are stretching forward but my feet are stuck in quicksand. Sometimes my body is full-speed ahead, but my heart is pumping backwards. Sometimes I dress myself up in a pretty package – sparkly paper, bright red lips, stiletto Louboutins, and a bow on my head – but the box is empty. I've never felt so off-kilter and I've never felt so slow.
I used to feel an emotion and know what it was I was experiencing. It's something we learn as infants. I get pricked, "Ow!" I feel pain. I see a smile, "Yay!" I feel joy. I am given a hug, "Aw!" I feel love. I am spooked, "Ah!" I feel fear. But now, my emotions are a snowball. I can no long decipher one emotion from another. I am hurt. I am not just upset, instead I feel all the feelings. I am given a wonderful gift. I do not feel just gratitude, instead I feel all the feelings. I drink three glasses of wine, now I really feel all the feelings. It's exhausting to not be able to pinpoint your own emotions. Particularly because you and I used to communicate so clearly about the way we felt, what we were experiencing, and why. Now, I know nothing. I just know I am sad, I feel gratitude, I feel love, I feel panic, I feel anger, I feel loss, I feel fucking everything. This is the first time in my life when there are days when I think, 'Damn. Can someone just give me a pill so I stop feeling so fucking much?!'
It's been four months. People ask me big questions. Where will you go from here? What's next for you? Today, I moved a pile of your stuff from the den to the studio. I saw your drum kit and I fell to the floor. I crawled to your throne and I pulled myself onto it. I sat behind your kit and listened to the sound it made when my tears hit the snare, then the tom, then the snare, and then the tom. As I sat, listening to my percussion beat of sadness, I struggled with frustration. I am used to moving with momentum. I'm used to accomplishing tasks with determination and pace. I'm used to answering the big questions with gusto and knowing. But now, in this place, I can't. I'm moving in slow motion and I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. I don't know anything. And I can't answer any questions, theirs or mine.
I moved three things today – a pile, a box, and a rug. And that was accomplishing a lot. Because with each movement comes reminders of what was and what will not be.
I moved the pile and had to confront the drum kit.
I moved the box and discovered what was inside – hundreds of old letters, notes, and cards. You had saved over two decades of correspondence. I got lost in your world. It made me sad because I wanted you to be able to be there with me, telling me the stories behind each letter. I read love notes from teenage girlfriends who I can't remember if you ever told me about. I wanted to read those love notes and hear your subtext. I wanted to hear about where those girls are now and smile because they loved you in a time before I knew I loved you. It makes me happy to know you were loved. I thought about the decades of love notes that I had planned to write to you and that you were supposed to save in those same boxes... and then more boxes because you would run out of space in the box you had. I saw all the letters your mom sent you. She wrote you at camp when you were a kid. She wrote you a poem when you graduated high school. She sent you birthday cards each year. She sent you letters just because. But now that you're gone, she can't write you anymore. I thought of all the boxes that would go unfilled.
I swapped a rug that I didn't like with one I found in storage that I did like. And for the rest of the day, every time I walk through the room, I stop and wonder if you would like it there. I consider switching the old rug back just to keep the room how it was when you were here. I am living in your catacomb and I can't fathom leaving.
Change is inevitable, but it is taxing. Movement is unavoidable, but momentum is rare. Big questions loom, but there are no answers in sight.
I drove home tonight and looked up at the moon. It was a crescent shape. I noticed how it looked like a ladle that could hold anything and just let a slow drip spill out. I imagined you, as an mischievous angel, balancing yourself dexterously on its crescent ridges. You always loved to climb things. I tried to look at the moon with something other than disappointment, 'I prayed to you and you let me down...' I tried to look at the moon the way you and I looked at it when we admired the view from our bedroom window. But, I couldn't. I averted my eyes. It hurt, as if I had stared at the sun for too long. I'm simply not there yet. Instead, I am here, feeling it all.
Marrakech
I'm pretty certain you wouldn't like Marrakech. It's not a place to come to clear your mind. Clearing my mind was ever my intention, keeping it abuzz was more of the plan. Yet it's interesting because as I've moved through the maze of this city today – it's been one of the first times since you left that I thought, "Thank God Ted's not here!" The reason that's come to my mind is NOT because I don't want you here, but simply that I don't think you would want to be here.
It reminds me that no matter how in love we were, how agreeable we were, how much we had in common, and how much fun we always had together – we still were very different people.
I've written a lot about our love. And I've thought about it much more than that. Our love was and is beautiful. It was and is irreplaceable. But, our love was and is not perfect. Perfect does not exist. To call our love perfect would be to discredit what we had and have.
You often referred to yourself as a recovering perfectionist.
I imagine us in the kitchen. It's after lunch and I offer to do the dishes. As I rinse each dish and place them in the dishwasher, I can feel your gaze from across the kitchen. You're putting away food, but your eyes are fixed on what's happening near the sink instead. In your eyes, I could never load the dishwasher correctly. Alright, so in most peoples' eyes I couldn't load the dishwasher correctly, I'll give it to you. But my way of doing dishes was unacceptable to you. You liked every dish to be completely, well... clean... before putting it in the washer. Once they were loaded, there was this... system... you had. Plates in this spot... facing this way. "If they don't all face the same way, the water won't spray on them and they won't get clean," you'd explain. "Uh huh," I'd answer. I'd move them to the way you liked them, because I knew you were right and moreso because I liked to make you happy. The glasses went in the top... I did that part right. But sometimes, a glass would slip and end up right-side-up. "Sweetheart, do you know how a dishwasher works?" you'd ask. "Kinda," I'd say. You'd continue, "Let me explain. You see... the water comes from here and it..." "MAGIC!" I'd interrupt, "It works cause of MAGIC." And then I'd bump your hip with mine playfully. I'd kiss your cheek and grin mischievously. I didn't really care about how the machine worked. The dishes would get clean enough for my liking even if they were loaded imperfectly. I didn't have the need to fit as many dishes as possible in the dishwasher. We had plenty of extras to use. And if one slipped and turned upside-down, I'd rinse it out and call it a day.
A similar situation went for laundry. You would do laundry more than me. You said it was because you had less underwear and needed to do it in order to have fresh boxers. But then I bought you a ton more underwear and you kept doing the laundry before me anyway. I'm convinced you really secretly loved to do laundry.
I would wander into our bedroom, eyes glazed over from staring at the computer screen for work. "Oh shit! I didn't know you were doing laundry? Let me help," I'd say. You would be folding clothes. I'd start hanging your t-shirts just like you liked them – color coordinated, all facing the same direction, and de-wrinkled from extra time in the dryer. At some point I'd look over at you because I'd realize you'd been struggling with a garment. You would be caught up trying to fold one of my two-layered yoga tops – one of the ones with a built in sports-bra and an additional layer or two over top. "I just...can't... figure out... how to fold this," you'd say, confused. You'd be folding, and refolding, and refolding. I'd grab the shirt from your hand, haphazardly fold it into a half-ass ball of fabric and respond, "Like this." You'd shrug, "Alright..." Just by the look in your eyes it was obvious you were thinking of how wrinkled the top was about to become if I actually used that method. You were right. But then you'd let it go and go back to folding your boxers into perfect sixths and placing them scrupulously on your shelf.
When we checked into a hotel, you would unpack your bag and meticulously arrange it in the dresser provided. If there were no drawers available, you would hang as much as possible and keep the rest folded methodically in your bag. You were the world's best folder. You would have been the GAP's wet dream of an employee. However, you didn't like to iron because you could never get it perfect enough. Therefore, the dry cleaners knew you well. I, on the other hand, explode like a tornado in my suitcase. I'm not messy. I don't leave clothes on the floor. But I have no problem treasure hunting through my bag to find a matching sock or a missing blouse.
So here I am in Marrakech. I knew this city would be intense, so I spent the extra dime for a great hotel that would afford Natalia and I some zen amidst the craziness. That's just the fancy in me (which you and I had in common). We appreciate a quiet space, a safe refuge, and some class. I had this 'thing' where I would stick up my nose at a hotel if it didn't have white bedspreads. "I can't tell if they're clean if they're not white," I'd insist. You'd get it. You wouldn't think I was just being prissy. So here I am in this beautiful hotel that I can barely afford. They provide rose water, fresh dates and figs, cinnamon scented rooms with lavish tapestries, and Turkish coffee delivered each morning. But just outside the rose-tinted glass door of this beautiful sanctuary is a mad and hectic world.
The tangle of alleys here in Marrakech have no logical pattern. I spent my entire day lost and you know I have a fantastic sense of direction. You would have gone berserk trying to figure out how to get to the next destination because of the impossible wayfinding. Mopeds whizzed around corners, crashing, honking, and nearly running over toes, tourists, and stray cats. When it's not a motorbike, it's a skeletal mule trotting alone pulling a broken down wagon. I imagined your anxiety. You liked calm. You liked space. You liked breath. You liked order. You liked cats.
Add to that the hassling venders while trying to make our way through the souks. One after the other, taunting us with the cheapest deal in town. "Free for you!" they'd lie. "This is Berber silver, not China silver," they'd claim while holding a tin bracelet. "It is real amber, not plastic," they'd demonstrate by holding a lighter's flame up to the obviously glass bead. The vendors, though delightful in many ways, have a discerning ability to make you feel important and beautiful one moment, when you're making them a good deal – and then ugly and angry in the next moment, when you don't agree to their barter. Rather than being excited when you make a deal, they pout with disrespectful theatrics as you walk away with your new purchase.You would have been crushed by the dishonesty. You would have been sad that you could not make them happier. Not to mention the fact that you would be completely unimpressed by 99% of the wares they had to offer. I was stoked by the fresh styles, cheap prices, and exciting banter, but I couldn't help but think about your reaction.
I could imagine the scenario if you were here. I'd be in the sixth store selling the exact same argon oil. Like the good Jew that I am, I'd be bartering for the best price, "The guy down the street said 200 dirhams!" "No, no. This is very good price for you," this shopkeeper would respond, eight of the fifty words he knew in English. You'd be patiently waiting near the door. "No thank you. Shukran," I'd say as I dragged you out of the store, using the one of two words I knew in Arabic. Before walking into store number seven, you would say calmly, "Babe. We should consider how much our time is worth. Maybe just pay the cost they're giving you and we can move on to the next thing?" Always so sensible. As the next shop owner started his theatrics by pulling a dried chameleon out of the apothecary jar, claiming it worked as Viagra, I thought about how you want want to support the economy. How you'd recognize that the cheapest price isn't always the best price, because the locals deserved to make profit too.
Despite my effort to cover my blonde hair and be respectful to the Arabic culture, as a young Western woman, I attract attention. The moment I boarded Air Maroc from Malaga, Spain, I witnessed the change in attitude. The flight attendant flirted as he delivered my in-flight beverage. He told me I had a beautiful smile. When I went to the bathroom, I waited for him to be in a distant area of the cabin, because male attention is unwarranted to me these days. When I left the bathroom, he, unfortunately, was stationed by the lavatory door. "You have a very beautiful eye," he whispered in my ear, as I snuck by him, heading back to my seat. Just one beautiful eye, not two. Since we've been here, there have been some good ones. "Can I put a baby in you?" asked one man in an alley. "Do you want a nice massage?" asked another. And others, just clicked their tongues grossly. In all honesty, I've felt pretty ugly since you left. I went from feeling hot and in love to depressed and lonely. The catcalls are not ideal, but still a stroke to the ego. I imagine you witnessing this vulgar attention I've been receiving. You, never jealous, would let it go with a chuckle – but you would still be concerned with the attitude the women here receive. You appreciated women.
The sound system from the mosques for the call-to-prayer would ricochet throughout the medina throughout the day. I could just imagine you cringing as you heard the muffled audio and fuzzy speakers. I thought about how the slightest bit of static on a radio station would drive you nuts. How if I played a song for you out of the speakers on my iPhone, you simply couldn't offer an opinion on the music because you were so distracted by the unacceptable acoustics. For me, the call-to-prayer was incredibly touching. Tears ran down my cheeks as I stood as a witness to the Muslim's diligent service to God. While you were often governed by acoustics, I am governed by sight. The rhythmic bowing was moving and the sense of community was sublime.
This city is not perfect at all. It's mad. Honestly, I don't know if I like it or not. But I do know that I'm happy I get this opportunity for discovery. And in some ways, I'm OK that I'm doing it without you – because it is allowing me to decide for me, rather than for you (however, in some ways, I'm doing that too...). I get to witness the manic frenzy of traffic, back alleys, birds in jars, shoptalk, haggling, and whistles for what they are to me, not anyone else.
But after my day of getting lost, when my anxiety had risen into high gear and I came back to the hotel for refuge – that's when I really missed you. Even though my suitcase would be a mess and you would be organized like a prince, it wouldn't matter. Because in our own imperfection, we would be a pair. We would have a drink together, crawl under the covers, make love, tell jokes, and get ready for a nice dinner reservation – because while there were certain things we didn't have in common, there were many things we did. We loved to laugh. We loved to relax. We loved to fuck. We loved a glass of good wine. We loved to eat something politically incorrect. We loved so many of the same things. And most of all, we loved to fall asleep happy.
Our love was not perfect. We were two parts that made up a near-perfect whole. But not a perfect whole. And I'm glad of that. But it was the closest thing to perfect I have ever experienced. I never woke up a happier woman then everyday I woke up next to you. You are the closest man to perfect I have ever known. The only imperfection I know, is that you are no longer here.
It reminds me that no matter how in love we were, how agreeable we were, how much we had in common, and how much fun we always had together – we still were very different people.
I've written a lot about our love. And I've thought about it much more than that. Our love was and is beautiful. It was and is irreplaceable. But, our love was and is not perfect. Perfect does not exist. To call our love perfect would be to discredit what we had and have.
You often referred to yourself as a recovering perfectionist.
I imagine us in the kitchen. It's after lunch and I offer to do the dishes. As I rinse each dish and place them in the dishwasher, I can feel your gaze from across the kitchen. You're putting away food, but your eyes are fixed on what's happening near the sink instead. In your eyes, I could never load the dishwasher correctly. Alright, so in most peoples' eyes I couldn't load the dishwasher correctly, I'll give it to you. But my way of doing dishes was unacceptable to you. You liked every dish to be completely, well... clean... before putting it in the washer. Once they were loaded, there was this... system... you had. Plates in this spot... facing this way. "If they don't all face the same way, the water won't spray on them and they won't get clean," you'd explain. "Uh huh," I'd answer. I'd move them to the way you liked them, because I knew you were right and moreso because I liked to make you happy. The glasses went in the top... I did that part right. But sometimes, a glass would slip and end up right-side-up. "Sweetheart, do you know how a dishwasher works?" you'd ask. "Kinda," I'd say. You'd continue, "Let me explain. You see... the water comes from here and it..." "MAGIC!" I'd interrupt, "It works cause of MAGIC." And then I'd bump your hip with mine playfully. I'd kiss your cheek and grin mischievously. I didn't really care about how the machine worked. The dishes would get clean enough for my liking even if they were loaded imperfectly. I didn't have the need to fit as many dishes as possible in the dishwasher. We had plenty of extras to use. And if one slipped and turned upside-down, I'd rinse it out and call it a day.
A similar situation went for laundry. You would do laundry more than me. You said it was because you had less underwear and needed to do it in order to have fresh boxers. But then I bought you a ton more underwear and you kept doing the laundry before me anyway. I'm convinced you really secretly loved to do laundry.
I would wander into our bedroom, eyes glazed over from staring at the computer screen for work. "Oh shit! I didn't know you were doing laundry? Let me help," I'd say. You would be folding clothes. I'd start hanging your t-shirts just like you liked them – color coordinated, all facing the same direction, and de-wrinkled from extra time in the dryer. At some point I'd look over at you because I'd realize you'd been struggling with a garment. You would be caught up trying to fold one of my two-layered yoga tops – one of the ones with a built in sports-bra and an additional layer or two over top. "I just...can't... figure out... how to fold this," you'd say, confused. You'd be folding, and refolding, and refolding. I'd grab the shirt from your hand, haphazardly fold it into a half-ass ball of fabric and respond, "Like this." You'd shrug, "Alright..." Just by the look in your eyes it was obvious you were thinking of how wrinkled the top was about to become if I actually used that method. You were right. But then you'd let it go and go back to folding your boxers into perfect sixths and placing them scrupulously on your shelf.
When we checked into a hotel, you would unpack your bag and meticulously arrange it in the dresser provided. If there were no drawers available, you would hang as much as possible and keep the rest folded methodically in your bag. You were the world's best folder. You would have been the GAP's wet dream of an employee. However, you didn't like to iron because you could never get it perfect enough. Therefore, the dry cleaners knew you well. I, on the other hand, explode like a tornado in my suitcase. I'm not messy. I don't leave clothes on the floor. But I have no problem treasure hunting through my bag to find a matching sock or a missing blouse.
So here I am in Marrakech. I knew this city would be intense, so I spent the extra dime for a great hotel that would afford Natalia and I some zen amidst the craziness. That's just the fancy in me (which you and I had in common). We appreciate a quiet space, a safe refuge, and some class. I had this 'thing' where I would stick up my nose at a hotel if it didn't have white bedspreads. "I can't tell if they're clean if they're not white," I'd insist. You'd get it. You wouldn't think I was just being prissy. So here I am in this beautiful hotel that I can barely afford. They provide rose water, fresh dates and figs, cinnamon scented rooms with lavish tapestries, and Turkish coffee delivered each morning. But just outside the rose-tinted glass door of this beautiful sanctuary is a mad and hectic world.
The tangle of alleys here in Marrakech have no logical pattern. I spent my entire day lost and you know I have a fantastic sense of direction. You would have gone berserk trying to figure out how to get to the next destination because of the impossible wayfinding. Mopeds whizzed around corners, crashing, honking, and nearly running over toes, tourists, and stray cats. When it's not a motorbike, it's a skeletal mule trotting alone pulling a broken down wagon. I imagined your anxiety. You liked calm. You liked space. You liked breath. You liked order. You liked cats.
Add to that the hassling venders while trying to make our way through the souks. One after the other, taunting us with the cheapest deal in town. "Free for you!" they'd lie. "This is Berber silver, not China silver," they'd claim while holding a tin bracelet. "It is real amber, not plastic," they'd demonstrate by holding a lighter's flame up to the obviously glass bead. The vendors, though delightful in many ways, have a discerning ability to make you feel important and beautiful one moment, when you're making them a good deal – and then ugly and angry in the next moment, when you don't agree to their barter. Rather than being excited when you make a deal, they pout with disrespectful theatrics as you walk away with your new purchase.You would have been crushed by the dishonesty. You would have been sad that you could not make them happier. Not to mention the fact that you would be completely unimpressed by 99% of the wares they had to offer. I was stoked by the fresh styles, cheap prices, and exciting banter, but I couldn't help but think about your reaction.
I could imagine the scenario if you were here. I'd be in the sixth store selling the exact same argon oil. Like the good Jew that I am, I'd be bartering for the best price, "The guy down the street said 200 dirhams!" "No, no. This is very good price for you," this shopkeeper would respond, eight of the fifty words he knew in English. You'd be patiently waiting near the door. "No thank you. Shukran," I'd say as I dragged you out of the store, using the one of two words I knew in Arabic. Before walking into store number seven, you would say calmly, "Babe. We should consider how much our time is worth. Maybe just pay the cost they're giving you and we can move on to the next thing?" Always so sensible. As the next shop owner started his theatrics by pulling a dried chameleon out of the apothecary jar, claiming it worked as Viagra, I thought about how you want want to support the economy. How you'd recognize that the cheapest price isn't always the best price, because the locals deserved to make profit too.
Despite my effort to cover my blonde hair and be respectful to the Arabic culture, as a young Western woman, I attract attention. The moment I boarded Air Maroc from Malaga, Spain, I witnessed the change in attitude. The flight attendant flirted as he delivered my in-flight beverage. He told me I had a beautiful smile. When I went to the bathroom, I waited for him to be in a distant area of the cabin, because male attention is unwarranted to me these days. When I left the bathroom, he, unfortunately, was stationed by the lavatory door. "You have a very beautiful eye," he whispered in my ear, as I snuck by him, heading back to my seat. Just one beautiful eye, not two. Since we've been here, there have been some good ones. "Can I put a baby in you?" asked one man in an alley. "Do you want a nice massage?" asked another. And others, just clicked their tongues grossly. In all honesty, I've felt pretty ugly since you left. I went from feeling hot and in love to depressed and lonely. The catcalls are not ideal, but still a stroke to the ego. I imagine you witnessing this vulgar attention I've been receiving. You, never jealous, would let it go with a chuckle – but you would still be concerned with the attitude the women here receive. You appreciated women.
The sound system from the mosques for the call-to-prayer would ricochet throughout the medina throughout the day. I could just imagine you cringing as you heard the muffled audio and fuzzy speakers. I thought about how the slightest bit of static on a radio station would drive you nuts. How if I played a song for you out of the speakers on my iPhone, you simply couldn't offer an opinion on the music because you were so distracted by the unacceptable acoustics. For me, the call-to-prayer was incredibly touching. Tears ran down my cheeks as I stood as a witness to the Muslim's diligent service to God. While you were often governed by acoustics, I am governed by sight. The rhythmic bowing was moving and the sense of community was sublime.
This city is not perfect at all. It's mad. Honestly, I don't know if I like it or not. But I do know that I'm happy I get this opportunity for discovery. And in some ways, I'm OK that I'm doing it without you – because it is allowing me to decide for me, rather than for you (however, in some ways, I'm doing that too...). I get to witness the manic frenzy of traffic, back alleys, birds in jars, shoptalk, haggling, and whistles for what they are to me, not anyone else.
But after my day of getting lost, when my anxiety had risen into high gear and I came back to the hotel for refuge – that's when I really missed you. Even though my suitcase would be a mess and you would be organized like a prince, it wouldn't matter. Because in our own imperfection, we would be a pair. We would have a drink together, crawl under the covers, make love, tell jokes, and get ready for a nice dinner reservation – because while there were certain things we didn't have in common, there were many things we did. We loved to laugh. We loved to relax. We loved to fuck. We loved a glass of good wine. We loved to eat something politically incorrect. We loved so many of the same things. And most of all, we loved to fall asleep happy.
Our love was not perfect. We were two parts that made up a near-perfect whole. But not a perfect whole. And I'm glad of that. But it was the closest thing to perfect I have ever experienced. I never woke up a happier woman then everyday I woke up next to you. You are the closest man to perfect I have ever known. The only imperfection I know, is that you are no longer here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)