Minnesota Goodbyes

Entry #44

It's getting hard to write. At the beginning, I thought I'd write what needed to be said, toss this aside, and let the past be leached out of me like poison. But somewhere along the line I got caught up, suspended in the she-is-here feeling of the past. And I know she's not, but the longer I stretch the words, the longer Clair lingers in me.

There's this fear that once the last word leaks onto the page, she'll be gone. There will be nothing left to say, and I will neither be healed nor absolved, and she will truly leave me.

So the words have been dribbling out, unsatisfactory and weak. They congeal on the page, black as sin and coffee, and

That's it.

I'm scared to keep writing, that I'll get to the end, but it's painful to stay here. Here and there especially. Winter break, after all. The calm before the storm.

You've never much liked that phrase. Calm before the storm. Because calm is wrong. Everything is supercharged (hairs raising on the back of your arms, air thick and heavy. Growing heavier on your shoulders, making your lungs rattle for breath. Air laden with rain, lungs lined with dew after each gasp. Sky sickly green, fever-hot.) Where is the calm in that?

Each waking moment without Clair is like that. Tension breaking over your back and sizzling white-hot on your skin. Now, there is pain in the waiting.

Tyler senses your restlessness in those moments and coaxes you to distraction when he can. The problem is you aren't interested in being driven from her. You can feel yourself being consumed by the coming storm, waiting for it roll in and boil across the sky.

And just before Tyler heads back to school, right when you're all loitering in the entryway among coats and scarves and slush on the rug, he opens his mouth. His lips part and eyebrows knit together, and you know he's trying to figure out how to say goodbye. But he shakes his head, grinning down at you so his face smooths away his worry, and the moment passes. (The goodbye ends up being of the standard kind. Too long, repeated several times over before he finally checks his watchless wrist, "I gotta go. I'm going to miss my flight." A wink aimed at you. A handshake with your dad, a hug for Mom. Then he opens the door and exits in a swirl of wind.)

In the days since then, you've been aimless, generally not bothering to get out of your pajamas. Your roving is a sort of preoccupation to keep from being locked in your head, but it only works so well. (Your fingers drumming on your thighs or the kitchen counter. Biting your nails and staring listlessly outside while the wide world carries on. You feel sort of sick when you think about it.)

The day you head back to campus (your dad's truck overflowing with all the things you accumulated over break. Everything smells clean and plasticy, and you sort of like that, even if it's an ode to consumerism.) You etch flowers into the frost on the window but blot it out when your jiggling causes your finger to slip. The drive flashes past your eyes. An eternity of nothing to remember.

And then.

Your dad helps you lug everything into your sort-of-dorm-room, where Lacy is glancing at the TV and absentmindedly folding a t-shirt. She yelps when she sees you, discarding the shirt, and enfolding you in a hug. (She likes your dad too, so she favors him with a half-hug as well.)

And then.

You make your excuses to duck out of the room. Your heart knocks against your ribs as you race down down down the hall. As you stumble down a set of stairs and out the door and through the snow and through the doors of Centen and up up up. You slip a small brass key out of your pocket (it was digging into your leg the entire drive, but the discomfort anchored you. A small spark, hot and bright in your jeans.)

The lock clicks open, welcoming you. And there she is, eyes lighting on you. Her smile spreads across her face, a flower blooming.

And then.

You are home.