It was six months ago today that the Detective called me at work. Dragged me away from a bit of business with the boss. Pretty much made it clear that he didn't want me dropping you messages via Facebook anymore, that you would never write to me again, that they dragged you in, inquisition style, when I was busted for these posts back in '09. Seemed right at the time to say, of course, I won't write her anymore, when he asked me not to. Seemed like the right thing to do when he said that those posts, however kind, however friendly, made you sad. Who am I to make you sad, M? So, I have been good to my word. Not a peep, not a syllable, not the slightest vowel or consonant or number.
I feel good about that. And at the same time, sad. Sad in knowing that somehow I gave up, or let go, or that something said to loud and clear, finally: "end game".
But as I told my good friend BB one cool fall night here recently, I feel, that right up to the end, I was honest to myself, that I behaved, however foolishly, honorably, too. I have no regrets about hanging on, of letting the world crash down around me, to allowing myself the selfish pleasure of being the last man on the hill, the one left to sit with the ragged standard, in the dying gasp of light of love.
So, my life has moved on, like the Detective said of your life over there.
I have used that time, that time away from here, to see to things that needed tending to. I made a long sought for peace with TEO. I had a summer with the kids by the municipal pool. I have taken trips to Washington to look after that poor old house of mine, one soon to go to the bank. I took two big trips, one to New York City, the other Cleveland, and enjoyed both thoroughly, both so much that I have applications out there, seeking employment in cities that I consider the last big step for my career.
I found that I am still the man who needs to provide so the distance that I see coming up between me and the kids is just one that has to be endured, as I see no help coming soon from their mom. The house, as I said, is falling down around my shoulders but I feel good letting it go. I spent the night there a few weeks ago, burned wood, cleared out the basement, cleaned the mess that the tenants left behind. I felt the web of the house, of sentiment, closing down around me and I knew that leaving the next day back to Idaho could not come soon enough.
I see that my life, however good it is here, is not meant to be spent here. It's like my pal Miguelito said to me as we trolled the streets of NYC: Wallito, your soul is too big for Boise. I felt that adventure, even if it's of the cultural sort, was waiting for me there. As much as I truly admired Cleveland and grooved on it's architecture and it's people it's Manhattan that I want to work in, live in, prowl around in.
I suppose I could have been buffaloed by you there as I managed, once again, to tell our story to innocent bystanders. But love is love and a good love story is timeless, especially one with a seemingly endless tragic ending. But regardless of the lions in front of the library, regardless of the "baked by Melissa" stands around town, regardless of the hopeless romantic who had to, just had to, have his photo taken in front of Tiffany's, I still thought of that place, that town, as more than future destination. I thought of it, think of it, as my salvation. I thought for sure that Boise would be it, but no. TEO has the lives of those kids too sewn up, to solidified. She is too afraid of letting loose of some of the control for if she did she knows that her life, forever bracketed in, would surely spin out of control. That's all too tight for me.
I find that my heart, however big, however hopeful, is not being let loose here. It's time, my dear, to fly, to make my way East, to make a bigger paycheck, to be better able to support those kids, to make it clear to TEO that however much I would have loved a reconciliation that I am gone, gone and far enough away to make that final break okay. With twenty four hundred miles between us we would not be able to see the final tears. All well and good.
So, there, my love, those are the words that have been saved up, been squirreled away, been kept from your eyes and his. It felt good, albeit hard, to keep to my word, but I have done it. Sure, I went by the house and it seems as if you are long gone. Sure, I pop in on your FB page to see if you have managed to update that silly ass photo of you and yours. And sure, when I was at conference, I told an old co-worker why I was let go, if only because I know she will tell the world, being that it's her nature to talk. I like it that that story continues to circulate around the neighborhood, the county, the internet. It makes me feel somewhat immortal, or, at the very least, up there with the pulp heroes and heroines of yore. A good story never dies, it just gets bigger.
Here's to the sixth annual celebration of the best road trip we ever took. Here's to October, a month we made into a sort of personal month long holiday. And here's to this man saying one thing and keeping to it. Can't guarantee it on your birthday, but for now, it's golden,
Love to you, M.
W
