Burning Down the House

Burning Down the House was getting heated, I couldn’t believe my mind as David Byrne and Alex Weir bantered back and forth, vibrations of their guitars flowing with electric ricochets; Steve Scales sowing it together in beat. My mind tried to distract me, is the laundry done? Caleb would be frustrated by my impatience in getting up. I consider this. What keeps me from enjoying this moment? Forcing myself to stay present, I shut my eyes and listen to the beat. Stay in it, I beg myself. I can feel the groove gradually bring me back to presence; I know this feeling and try to keep it here. Yet sabotage thoughts of Facebook notifications beaming, “10 years ago today” flood my mind. Of friends come and gone. Stay Here, I say, and I watch them sway with the sound of their own beat; burning down the house. I rest my eyes for just a moment, thoughts engulfed by heated visions.

Blinking into sight, I find myself in bed. I can feel Caleb pressed against my back breathing deeply and I sigh in relief. He doesn't sleep much. I often hear him snoring, lulling me to sleep, and when I wake, I know he has only been wandering. My face is perfectly cradled in my pillow, and I want to keep from waking him, but I know I need to move to reach the cold side. In doing so, I lose my cradle. Scooping my arm under my pillow, I ring it around to the other side and plop my head in anticipation of cold cotton on my cheek. I'll get up when it warms, I promise myself. Caleb moans and turning towards me, glides his hand over my hip and under my arm to hold me close. It feels better than my pillow so I skip my morning exercise in favor of staying in his company a little while longer.

Days blurred into weeks. And in the months that had passed, I maintained remarkable equanimity considering the abandonment that tugged at my heart. I had asked Caleb how he could handle it and he surprised me as always with his humble stoicism. When he said, ''If in thirty years from now, we're all sitting around in a cottage catching up, or--we may never speak again--I am happy to have laughed with them," I could feel my lungs release and accept fresh air. Likewise, later when Margo said to me, "We are lucky to have had them at a time when we needed them most," I could feel my eyes release retained salt water and swell in their wake. What I was not prepared for in the coming days, was the slow creeping of memories seeping through as forgiveness settles in. A remembering not only of memories and the places they hold, but of their active release of me; a pure and physical remembering of the moment as if I were reliving it at present to say goodbye. It came one day on a Monday afternoon, like a gentle fog shrouding me, in the middle of work as I booked in my next client. At once I was reminded of the smell of June in the early 2010s just after three p.m. on a Friday when school was out and we planned for evening mischief, poolside with Dominos pizza and Swedish barbecue meatballs. I could feel the youthful anticipation of walking up to their door and letting myself in, knowing I am not a stranger here. A memory fit for damage but instead, flowed as creative healing. I allowed myself to float there in time, both present and past intermingling. Only a couple seconds worth of time, but I could feel it overtake me like a lifelong experience. As soon as I could feel it welcoming me, it left, making no mistake to let me know I was valued. Like a warm hug from an old friend, I felt the release of their embrace. Floating betwixt time I looked out towards the west, and we watched the bats' emergence from caves at dusk.