It’s the kind of afternoon when the melancholy just settles on me like a fine dust brought in on the afternoon breeze, filtered through sheer curtains and late autumn sunlight, because all the windows are open, finally, after a scorching, relentless summer. The kind of afternoon where I could spend hours listening to Marlene Dietrich singing “Cherche la Rose” over and over again, wishes and hopes grappling, as they always do, with the unknown, and unknowable.
Reason chides me, but it is not a day for thought; thought has all the other days, and feeling has to slip in where it can, despite the custody agreement. Love…love lost…love found…love left in the pocket of a jacket I haven’t worn since last fall…how many kinds of unrequited love there are, and how many of those can one person safely engage in at once…the difference between anticipation and resignation when it comes to waiting…
If you don’t know what you’re waiting for, are you really waiting?
I ponder my relatively newfound comfort with not knowing–maybe “comfort” is too strong a word; “détente” might be more accurate, and it was a forced march, not a vacation to Malta, to get here–as the wind and the curtains tease and tickle my neck, billowing in front of the screen, as if to tell me, “Whatever you’re writing there? You don’t need that; you don’t need to see it. Close your eyes and feel the afternoon slipping away. Slip away with it.”
And so I do.