He has his moments, this man I call pirate, some good, lots of annoying, some bad. Sometimes I see how he is and imagine in my animal brain, this must have been how X saw me sometimes, when he called me common. But when I come in from the heat he asks me, did you see the flowers I brought you? I go back out and under the window by the air conditioner there is a bag of trillium bulbs, ready to be planted. And I find myself asking, is there anything less common than bringing such a treasure, like a fairy king, to my fairy queen feet? My grandmother told me once in the smoke scented kitchen with the chrome and vinyl kitchen set I see in the movies all the time, that a boy who brings flowers to his mother, or grandmother will make a good husband. My man brings me, not flowers from a shop, but flowers from the deep of the forest, the kind of flowers that linger for years in his own back yard. His bright eyes are like deep pools, when I kiss his forehead. I LOVE trillium. I tell him.
He tells me he is going out, and I do not ask questions, phone calls,and text messages in the planning and all evening no word from him. And I am not jealous, not really ever, just annoyed at how young his last love interest is, compared to him, although she starkly rejected him, and they still remain friends. Is there any more honorable man than one who you never question, whom you do not feel jealous of? Whom you know, would never shower and skip dinner, only to come home masking his woman scent with some other chemical, what is more common than a cheater who lies?
I am still so damn angry.
I step outside to plant my trillium, still stupid and lazy from an hour long massage. The smell of the neighbors lilacs in full bloom stops me in my tracks and I go and reach over the fence and pull down the overhanging branch. Three blossoms in my hand, and now filling my private room with their heavenly scent. I let the dog smell them and he wags his tail at me. I tell him, I found lilies of the valley out back, and you love the smell of those!
Is there anything less common than the luxury of monthly massages? I say not. I am royalty. And my body is grateful to me for losing the weight of a big empty house, I never really could afford. My gifted therapist works my sore back, and I feel healed, not all the way but soon I hope I will return to the woods. The president of Clark Reservation writes to me, begging me to return, telling me she misses me.
Is there anything less common than this, knowing this is your place, though his woman still seeks to insert herself, like a can of tuna in a peanut butter sandwich, out of place like a honking goose in the middle of a busy intersection. My mind is as broken as my heart, but I do not go out of my way to emotionally injure others for the pleasure of it pretending I have no idea how much I am hurting that person, that is the most common of all.
I still cannot return, whether my body is healed or not.
My eyes are rain on the ocean.