until, now... happy.

things turn around.

everyone but  you.

silence.

the garage:
no less than six bicycles, two motorcycles (possibly functional), one motorcycle (boxed), two pairs of cross-country skis, a gas grill, five cases of beer, a box of sprouting tubers, our old kitchen cabinets, a folding boat, several vacuum cleaners (probably nonfunctional), pieces of at least three home-gym machines, a basket of dried gourds, a table saw, a bookshelf, two cat carriers (one circa 1970), what was at one time a workbench now piled a foot high with stuff, tools, ladders, a sack of onions, tires, a machine i don't recognize, boxes of photos, three coolers, two fans, boxes labeled "garage," bags of plastic recycling, bags of stuffed animals from our childhood, rakes, brooms, fishing things, gardening things, cans of paint, an instant canopy "64 sq. ft. of shade" never opened, an old tape deck radio, strings of christmas lights, a saddle, pieces of wood in all shapes and sizes, old suitcases, folding chairs, a broken chair, and a roll of white mock-tile linoleum.

just outside of the garage sit one 1962 triumph TR-something (was last functional when i was about nine, nineteen years ago, and has rarely been seen outside its blue tarp wrapping ever since), six rubbish/recycling bins, two stacks of plastic chairs, and a section of white picket fence.

it is one of the great tragedies in my life, that i was born an american. (another, that i was born half-chinese, without the blonde hair, blue eyes, and long legs of my distantly-german-scottish-french mother.) my soul, i have always felt, has resided in britain. in the ragged cliffs and angry seas, the rolling soft green pastures with their hedgerows and sheep, the sturdy ponies and muddy wellingtons, ancient stones and viking burial grounds. the romanticized country pub with its fire warm in winter and dark beer and simple food. charles dickens and j.r.r tolkien (though his history was mostly invented, i always wished it was real), mary poppins and most of all jane austen. spencer and chaucer and milton and shakespeare. king arthur and sir gawain and beowulf and once a novel about a girl-paige with violet eyes who could wield a sword better than a king. what history could stand up to that? certainly not a history full of stuffy old men putting things in writing with plume-pens and those stupid pants. i was never very much beguiled by the vast expanses of unexplored territory: The West. i have been raised in the west, and it is lovely, but never so romantic as the unknown lands of the old country. even the native americans, whom i do admire, especially in their wisdom regarding the earth, and animals, and their quiet reverence of all things, have never held my heart. i feel more connected to my other ancestry (though it is not by blood, as far as i know), of the ancient polynesian explorers. the native hawaiians who were strong, dark, of the land and more so of the sea, who sang in a beautiful language and believed in mischievous menehunes and the power of the waves. they were warriors, they were royalty. they have eleven letters in their alphabet, only the letters that make the most melodious sounds. and the others -- the maori, with tattooed faces and violence and enduring art. those who were great navigators, ship builders, sea farers. i feel my soul borne on the same winds. i will find your stars to guide me, but never home, because home is nowhere. home is so many disparate places; the tops of mountains and the bottom of the sea floor, a ship, a forrest, a heart that will never stay still.

it was just a bad dream. reality wasn't like that. we were good. you loved me. i guess the ghosts of the past still haunt me sometimes. they come in sleep to punish what fortunate time i've had. i will never let myself go.

i am torn in two.

i need distractions to keep me from facing this reality. please lie to me and say everything will be okay. these things that used to be mine, in a past life. it was all so familiar now alien and strange. the future presses against me, tomorrow so close, so bleak. this is not my world, i have no need for these things. these people that are not mine. what do i do with this?

there are some things that scar your soul forever.

as we all stood there, waiting, holding our collective breath, he could not wait any longer. death is a merciful shepherd. he could not even speak. i do not know if he even felt us there anymore. we knew it was coming, that last slow shallow breath. and then we were there without him. a body is just a shell, a loose cage. i wanted so badly to run, to never stop running. but i could do nothing, just stand and hold on, to my mother, my sister, his sister, his mother, his brother. i was twenty-one in 2004. he was almost twenty-four. almost. twenty-six days later, i got my first tattoo. it was going to say “never forget” in latin, in a banner underneath, but that would have been superfluous. i will never forget who it is for.

--

we were in the hallway. at the foot of the stairs, outside my apartment door. i think there was a carpet on the old draughty wood floor. i froze. it is what i am most ashamed of. it caught me by surprise is all. the fierceness of his grip on my shoulders. the look in his eyes. he was not then the man i thought i knew. it was nothing, but it was everything. was that the same night he locked me out? that jon stayed on our couch, when we figured out he was crazy?

xxxxx – the other night, thursday, when we got home and i undressed, two small marbles fell out of my bra (haha, weird). i vaguely recall receiving them from somebody in tranqs, as if they were a personal treasure, so i put them in the only place i could keep them since i had no pockets. i can’t remember for the life of me who they came from. but i wanted to keep them and now i’ve left them in my abandonded room. i miss you.

i am going back to an empty room and a narrow bed, the same i’ve had since childhood. it is all the same and it is unfamiliar. it is all empty. a bleak wintry desert road punctuated by a hopeful turning in the distance that will be a visit from you.

i watch lightning from the black window. we are above it, above the clouds, above the earth. we are somewhere between where you sleep and where i will set foot in my country for the first time in fourteen months. i wish it were not so soon. i wish we could go on like we had been. forever and forget the world. when we kissed that was the only existence i could fathom. the universe collapsed into your lips. your hair beneath my hands. a caress. i never want to open my eyes. i explode into stars. just our atomic particles streaming into space. sparking light in a dark dark world.

i cried on the ferry as we left the island behind. i watched the cays recede and disappear. i’ve left my home, again. i know so much about that place. it is embedded in my soul. the world beneath the water is as familiar now as anywhere. it is more intimate and secret than anything spoken aloud. what is waiting for us there. if we hadn’t turned in just the right moment that manta would fly as gracefully behind us with no thought of what we’d miss. i know this happens all the time. the creatures that surround me unseen i am comforted somehow. just the fact of their existence is enough. its enough. i always think, if i am patient, if i relax my mind and my eyes, the sea will share with me its secrets. what am i without the sea? i do not know anymore. i cried for leaving her.

utila is my home and so are you.