there is nothing so beautiful as a man with his young daughter. The ten year old makes him free by her total admiration of the man, she invisibly supports his full 6' two hundred pound frame by means of her ample innocent heart. He stands, at ease, with his hip tilted in a femine, comfortable way while he replaces his frontdoor lock—the industry which engrosses she and he on their front porch as I write this. It is such a pleasure to watch him when he is like this; not self-conscious. With his son he acts happier, but it is so clearly an act that I see it clear across their street, which is all the way across my back yard. The eight year old boy must wonder why the man he loves, acts.
The girl needs not distract herself with such an answerless query; she sits cross-legged now, engrossed by some constructive contribution to the project, and utterly content. There is a perfect balance between daddy and daughter, a perfect meshing of need and power, of innocence and experience, of energy and serenity. He looks younger today, more attractive than before. He's 32, but today he looks 25. His body is somewhere between average and impressive—I have always noticed him. Before today it was always easy to return from the window where, in addition to his good looks, the angst and regimentation of his pressured day was visible, and unappealing.
Not so today. The face seems brighter, the haircut better, the jeans and T-shirt more flattering, and the span of his embrace more desireable. All this, I imagine, because with her he can relax and surrender his facade. And I don't think he even realizes she has changed him.
his keys. I don't mean the neighbor, I mean someone who is not nearly so close. Not anymore. In 1998 these keys opened the doors that led into the space I shared with Daniel in South Boston. I hadn't actually moved-in with him. I'm not that brave. In fact, it is misleading to say I actually shared the space. But every moment I had free, I spent near him, close enough to touch his face if the spirit moved, close enough to see the single white eyelash he has had all his life, close enough to sleep embracing him. Never close enough. We were together there only half the time; during the other half we cultivated our lonlinesses in preparation for our next reunion.
Perhaps it would have helped resolve our break-up if circumstances had made it necessary for me to move my things out of his apartment; then we could've re-defined our common ground as somewhat less than lovers—or somewhat more. We could still have each other. Only I'm not that brave, either. To articulate my frigidity is unbecoming, and perhaps unkind to myself. But it hurts to keep it in, so here it is.
He had expected me to arrive on my first day off of the week, not due to any plans we had made, but merely because that's what I always did. Only this time I was not going, and I could not call him to tell him; his phone had long been disconnected. I anticipated his call when I failed to show up at the usual time. No call. He still had a phone with dialtone, and could have called me collect, but didn't, even on day two. I knew something was wrong, and I resented being aware of it. I was resenting my exquisite sensitivity to the needs of all except me, only 99% of the time, I happily employed that perception, and people understandably expected it. This further annoyed me. I became enraged considering that my only alternative—if I cared—was to get on a bus to Boston and do exactly what I had chosen not to do.
fate is a real thing, no matter how you define it. I could have made that choice to stay home on any of the thousand previous weekends that I went to stay with Daniel, and it would not have mattered. He would have called me around suppertime on the day he expected me to show up, and we would have nuzzled on the phone, and made other plans. But I never made that choice prior to the fated weekend. Unerringly, I would appear at the side of my beautiful lover, and without fail he would light-up with such joy that I thought he must be faking—how could he always be so happy to see me? However, he was.
Daniel loved me. (That's the most difficult sentence this year.) And I loved Daniel, but I didn't love myself. That made it an affair of terror for me, which, I've decided since, is exactly where I was supposed to be. But I didn't think so then. And—wouldn'tcha know it—the same perfect lover that terrified me also offered me an excuse by which I could dismiss him as if I were not scared at all, as if it were all his fault. Daniel was a drunk.
This sweet tender soul, for the love of whom I professed to give my life, had collapsed in his progression through the painful days of his suffering. When he finally called, he told me he had given up, had quit work, had not risen from bed in days, and was coming to see me. I refused him, and have not spoken to him again.
i am not sure I know how true love works, or else I just don't realize that I know. Or I pretend not to know, because maybe true love would have had me stay right where I really wanted to be—with Daniel. True love might have provided everything I needed along the way, but... Well, you know the risks.
Needless to say, in 1998 I did not take last month's advice. I abandoned the boy I loved; it could have been the moment he needed me most, or he could have needed me to go. I may be the salvation he still needs, or I may yet represent his destruction incarnate. I will never know, and neither will he. I still have the keys, but the door is completely gone.
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