Love in The Mountains and Love in The Streams
Home Movies
I watch as my dad fiddles with the remotes, trying to remember which one does what. We all heckle him a little, my mom in her kidding tone, my brother in his impatient one. Then a click, and the TV starts to life. A dull whir emanates from the box as it processes the iridescent silver disk and the lives held within. Seat cushions groan under familiar weights as older, more weathered forms of the bodies on screen shift and settle into place. Fingers search in the dim light. Hands grasp hands. Smiles coalesce slowly and uncontrollably, creasing skin and drawing the lines that contain in their crags the histories of their wearers. They point and joke and remark on how much hair he had, how blonde she was, how little we were, how smart, how silly.
“What was his name again?”
[…]
“I remember that room.”
[...]
“You still have that shirt.”
Saltwater trickles toward upturned mouths. Laughter echoes. The joy of remembrance supersedes the ache thereof as they bear witness to the evidence of a life well-lived. One hand squeezes another and eyes lock and love between them and a moment electric.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Moments of Silence
The world can be loud. It hums and clangs with noises auditory and psychological, buzzing your ears, tightening your jaw. Out on the street or alone in your room your nerves register its presence - the presence of others. It’s not like you think that other people shouldn’t exist or anything, or that they don’t have the right to use a space just like you, but do they have to do it right now? Outside the window, early on a gloomy Tuesday? It seems everywhere you go there’s noise and clamor and cacophonous intermingling of signals from inside and out.
But then there are the moments of silence. There are the soft squeezes of her hand against yours, the smiles and winks. There are the slow mornings eating eggs and toast, sitting criss-cross-applesauce in bed because neither one of you wants to sit at the desk. There are the dreamlike flashes of pulling each other close in the twilight’s pale stillness, and a few indistinguishable words that fall like spells over you and lay quiet on your ears and calm on your body. There are the small sounds of her light snoring that cut the wicked, vibrating air and force a smile. Noise can be silence too.
Squirrels
Rodentia is such a broad order. When someone says “rodent,” the first image that appears in my mind is that of a rat: Dark, dirty, always larger than you realize, with that slender tail like a long, leathery worm. I’m glad squirrels aren’t rats. Given my extant rat-prejudice, they’d be a lot less fun to watch.
The squirrels in my yard must be very smart - they’ve invented tag! One chases another round a tree, then up the trunk and towards a branch - fluffy brown head chasing fluffy brown tail - before they have a brief conversation. The conversation varies by game. Sometimes the chased chitters something at the chaser, driving him into such a rage that he blunders his advantage and moves first, allowing the other to rush past him in the other direction, down the trunk, and across the yard to another tree. Sometimes, the chaser keeps a cooler head. He stares and waits for the other to move. This can go on for a while (in squirrel time of course). Usually it is here acknowledged that the chased has lost and the action is suspended for a time. Sometimes, after the pause, the game resumes on opposite terms - each now enjoying the perspective of the other.
I wonder if rats play like my squirrels. I wonder if they too have friends.
Open Door
Someone held the door for me today. It was raining - big, fat drops that rode the currents of the wind so as to sneak below the hood of my rain jacket. He was swaddled in his rain gear just like me. A black rain jacket, blue jeans, a black backpack, and a pause, a few seconds longer spent in the elements. A brief nod at the offered thanks, and on we went, to the next carefully budgeted parcel of our respective days. Amid my fellow, sopping, rushing pilgrims I think I stood a few drops drier, my mood a touch brighter.
Scrub
The front door opens, then slams shut. The stairs absorb rapid thuds as one of my roommates rushes up them. I sit and listen from my room, my attention momentarily grabbed by the development. In a flash he is running back down, feet clomping loudly. I think he’s heading for the door, but no! Instead, a consistent low rustle of activity begins. The dishes, which have been piled up in the sink since the last weekend’s festivities, are being washed. I hear the scrub of the brush and the clatter of silverware, and I rise to go check in - it’s a big task to do alone.
“What’s up?” I say when I stroll into the kitchen, stopping on my path to eye some snacks.
“Hey, what’s up,” he responds, dropping a plate into the drying rack. I expected there to be some kind of clear exigence, that he’d be dressed up a bit, maybe somebody was coming over. But he’s wearing an ill-fitting T-shirt and shorts, no sign of expected company.
“Are a lot of those yours?” I say as casually as I can.
“No, like none, I just can’t look at them anymore.”
“Yeah fair,” I say, leaning on the counter with the yogurt I’d plucked out of the fridge. “You want any help?”
“Um, maybe.”
“You do half, I do half?”
“Sure.”
With that I take my leave to the living room - sitting on the couch, scooping at the orange-against-white yogurt, scraping the side for the last peach tidbits, waiting to be called upon. After a while the sound of the sink and the brush stop, and he comes in drying his hands on a towel.
“Ok I did like the pots and pans, there’s mostly just some plates and stuff left.”
“Sounds good,” I rise to get past him and do my shift.
“Thanks.”
“For sure.” He sits down on my spot on the couch, and the sounds of the sink and the brush resume.
Shooting the Shit
It was a rare night. Rare as in unusual, uncommon, and infrequent. But also as in distinctive, superlative, and exceptional. The days before Thanksgiving break tend to be quiet - most people leave earlier than the school allows, claiming the family time they deserve instead of what they receive. If you stick around on campus you’re liable to spend some time alone, as happened to my friend and I. The house was empty but for us, so when Saturday night rolled around, there was really nothing much to do - except go on a date.
I’m not sure he’d phrase it that way, and of course it wasn’t a real date - we were both in committed relationships after all - but it might as well have been. We sat at home and had drinks, listened to some music, got dressed up appropriately, then went out to eat somewhere we’d never been. Then, after partaking in some Indian food and some more conversation we took a leisurely stroll to a bar and shot some pool. We joked about the intimacy of the night when we got back home, but there was no malice to it, no defensiveness, no need to qualify the friendship, just a nice night of talking and spending time together one on one. Bedtime came when we were ready, at just the right pace, and we said the appropriate goodbyes:
“Night man, love you.”
“Love you too, goodnight.”