I walk up a small hill, and my footsteps weave with the snow, pressing into familiar patterns of warmth. I notice similarities of shape— my footprints as the scarf she gave me, the scarf hanging above them, threatening to fall. I consider its weight a longing to reunite with its wild, aesthetic form. I have tied it tightly, though, and it will stay with me, because she said it could. I think of her when I walk, and I wish she were with me. Lately, she has often been with me; and if she is not, I am thinking of her.
When I picture her, she is usually leaning against the outside of a Rexall downtown, reading The Master and Margarita or some other dense Russian thing I don’t have the patience for. She is perfectly comfortable there in a way no one else could be. The world has a way of forming around her, as if solid concrete were suddenly as soft as fabric. I saw her lean against that particular drug store once, several years ago. It was one among many days of meeting each other downtown to walk the same stretch of shops and buy nothing. I was late, or she was early. I stepped off the streetcar to find her waiting—relaxed, perched diagonally. She knew I would come, and I knew she would be there. At that moment, she was the whole city to me. I asked her to summarize her book, and she did, entirely through the lens of what she liked about it. Good, that was all I cared about anyway.
Sometimes, I read her a poem, and she listens raptly, but I can tell she is waiting for more story. Katy has always wanted more story out of life.
The story of her and me is almost ten years old, and it has always been easy. We met early in our lives, when we thought everything that could happen had already happened to us. We went to the mall, shared our darkest secrets, bought ugly shirts, and drank smoothies. We skipped math class—often my idea—and she reassured me when I got nervous about it. She was a little worse at math, and I was a little worse at being cool. This is probably still true, except now she does sudoku.
“I hate when people use ‘cool’ as a compliment,” I once told her. “I have never been cool about anything.”
We liked the same TV, hated the same people, and shared the same lies about both. I have never been tired of her, and I am completely addicted to sharing her world. We have never fought, and consequently I don’t believe anyone ever really needs to. The cycle of rupture and repair has always felt mysterious and daunting to me— since I’ve known her. Something other people move through, something we never had to learn.
She left the city for a while, and we both did just fine without each other. Still, among the saddest moments of my life was when I realized I didn’t know her new address by heart, and broke down in instant tears. Despite her absence, I lived a wonderful life while she was gone. I found lovely people that I’m sure I will always know. I fell hugely in love. I made habits and hobbies, identities and ideals, and filled her in on all of it. She did the same. And I thought of her, probably every day.
This September happened exactly how Septembers should happen. It was warm but not too warm, routines fell easily into place, everything was cast in yellow, Katy came back, and everything has changed a little for the better. I have thought of her every day still, but I have seen her most days.
Each thread of my life has tightened to create something warm and whole.
We walk near an old haunt, and I think of a past version of myself—all her love and youth, all her joy and her guilt. And I look to Katy, and I understand that young girl so easily and all at once. Katy loved her. And I love Katy. Another thread tightens. My memories sharpen and expand into the present with understanding and promise.
I try something entirely new to me, and I face it all more bravely, because I know she will care about it no matter how it goes. Another thread fills a gap in the tapestry, and I dance again.
I think loving is rather like weaving. There is no rupture, and there is no repair. When someone is truly threaded in, there is only creation. There is only closeness, and there are only small gaps to tighten.
It’s December now. I walk slowly up a small hill, and I understand it all at once. My footprints and my scarf and the branches. I will tell her later.
Leave a Reply