Thursday, April 24, 2003

The lake is soft. Below the surface there are plants waiting patiently to be warmed by the summer sun. They stay there, brown, flush with the color of the water. The sand is always firm under my feet, and the trails are always empty and untrodden. The cabin has the smokey smell of campfires lit on chilly spring nights. There is something soothing about putting on my softest jeans, and covering myself in thick fleece. Clogs replace shoes. Woolen socks are a staple. My hair smells fresh like cold air.

Upon entering the old sand road, I turn off my music and roll down my windows. I can already smell the pines seeming through the vents of my car; my car itself feeling foreign and machanical amonst the greens and browns of the woods. Appearance is forgotten, makeup replaced with sunscreen and the smell of bar soap. I am fresh faced and new, the old me washed down the drain and wiped on a towel.

I don't need to speak. I listen to the sounds of wind in the pines and the last of Winter's geese on the water. My kayak glides silently along. I move gently along, smearing the water with my paddle, and watching the ripples flow away from me. I explore the small coves and hidden islands of the lake. I watch the sun set and the moon rise.

Time is forgotten and my body returns to the primal ways goverened only by daylight. I sleep after it is dark, and wake after it is light. (Oh! I had forgotten what the morning smells like!) The cabin smells of fresh coffee and toast. The sound of stocking feel scuffling across the wooden floor and quiet discussions are the first sounds of the day. We live together now. Privacy is not necessary as the world outside is our getaway.

I forget about you. I forget about conversations we have had, and projects we have worked on. I forget about music we listened to, and movies we watched. I can sit quietly and not need you beside me to justify my existence. I am whole here in this world of campfires and kayaks.

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Friday, April 11, 2003

The removal of you from all that is me will not be an easy task. I removed you from my music, slowly putting the bones of you to the bottom of the pile. The harmony I hold sacred will not be infected by you any longer, my dear. Tendrils of you exist where we used to go. I still see your body swaying to long forgotten beats. New faces fill where you sat, swirling with the ghost of you. You fade like a summer shower. I know beyond the rain there is cool relief. When it stops, I will step back and wave, aboard a train to somewhere going far away from you.

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