First: the long distance relationship dream come true -- holding the one you love and realizing that they’re real. You didn’t dream them up. They aren’t an abstraction, a perfection, an invisible friend. They’re them, and all the silly little bits of them: homework, stuffed noses, messy rooms and math tests. No bread or skim milk in the house. Terrible vodka in the cupboard.
But those unpretty parts are the best. Hell, they’re more beautiful than you remembered. You kiss the salt on their skin, you touch their shoulders and recall sculptures of Adonis or Aphrodite. You watch them move, watch them dance, and the world just feels more right.
you kiss.
you hold.
you make love.
and everything is better. everything will be alright.
everything is just perfect. you love them.
(and i do love you.)
... But it was more this time – there were other salient details. You know when the sun hits a leaf, and the glow warms the edges and you can see the veins of the leaf? And it’s no longer simply beautiful, but very, very IMPORTANT. It’s staring at the sky in early fall, and knowing that this is THE horizon. This is the earth you live in. You want to tell the world about the way that a snake hurries away from you, then looks back, invitingly, inquiringly, before darting into the brush.
It is the details.
I’ve never felt much attachment to the architecture of Oberlin – though I do like architecture, and Oberlin’s strange unplanned landscape. The trees in Tappan Square evoke a stronger awe than elegant Talcott, the sandstone Disney magnificence of Peters, or the neoclassical Memorial arch. I don’t feel flushed by Cass Gilbert, or Silsbee, or the religiosity of the Science Center. But the stillness of the Reservoir gets me, every time.
It is in my friends, who make me feel real. They give me form, structure, and a valid self. I’ve grown worse at engaging large groups, but more amazed by the comfort in sharing time with one. When I visit, I always want more time to hold hands and walk with my friend-family, from cousins to siblings. They are so beautiful and they give me so much. (My name feels safe in their mouths.)
It is Ma’ayan’s face softening, thinking about the poster, thinking about the future and the past.
Harris reading Annie Dillard aloud to me, and poems like “Aubade” written onto scrap paper on his wall.
It is Amanda straddling a log, becoming a “sex panther” with me. It is Amanda, her hand on the small of my back, moving with me to Nina Simone, her eyes insatiable.
It is Greg, self-possessed, grounded: living, teaching, and playing.
It is a Gimlet. It is a sip of Guinness. It is a glass of milk after a day of dancing.
It is muddling through the basic of West Coast Swing, trying to move on the third beat of a triplet (that probably isn’t a triplet.) It is the classically-trained instructors, and their care for each other, arm in arm at the airport.
It is Kate’s face, covered in freckles, exuding comfort and calm.
It is Mari’s knee causing her pain, but the smoothness of the workshop easing her mind. Monica’s grace. Fiona’s charm. My inability to lead them, but simply stare at their loveliness and be overwhelmed.
It is Lily’s infectious grin and incredible warmth. It is Scout’s vibrant honesty.
It is Mineh's understanding that I am an immature pervert, and the way he leads me around.
It is Ali’s goofiness, her maddeningly gorgeous eyes, and how she and Patrick joke with each other.
It is Brandi's focus behind the wheel, her integrity so clear.
Jeff Hagan’s messy desk, even with Brandi’s tidying, and his enthusiasm for my future.
A crowd dancing. The circus on a Friday afternoon. A large coffee from Slow Train. The golden tree in Tappan, and the tree that belongs to Kris.
My friends.
I love them.
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