closing november

Every holiday season, since I met the one who calls me Wednesday, I have found myself measuring the holiday season differently than I did before. I measure my holiday's on her. Probably because before I met her, I never thought about the holidays. Ever. They came and went. I unwrapped presents, took red-eye flights around the country, and ate turkey until my sides burst. She on the other hand, had iconic beliefs of what the holiday season should be. Perfectly trimmed trees, happy families, Its a Wonderful Life playing on the television. Its the season of her birthday, thanksgiving and christmas. And to her, it mattered.

Our first November brought us stolen kisses that were not meant for either of us. Birthday's celebrated in hidden darkness with bottles of Jest Red and nights cuddled under down comforters in dormitories.

Our second November led me to her house at the base of Vermont to celebrate her birth with her downtrodden, wine soaked mother who was nursing an aching heart. Only a few weeks later to whisk her from one fancy restaurant to another in the big apple. Afterward we stole home, hands entangled, more fleeting kisses. Directly following, I attempted to provide succor to her lobster-allergy-induced sickness. Christmas morning we shared mix tapes, and exchanged gifts over a brunch befit for kings--pomegranate seeds, goat cheese infused scrambles, champagne.

I still have that mix. The perfumes she saw as being 'iconically me' still sit in a box on my window.

Our third was spent exchanging awkward emails across oceans. Myself in my own private version of developmental country heaven. Expat thanksgivings and christmases with deep fried turkey, torrential downpours and 70 degree heat. Just a few days after my arrival back to the states in mid-January, we spent a few days in her Astoria studio as she nursed my wounds from six months overseas. We drank rose champagne, ate chocolate raspberry pancakes, skipped around on subways. I fell in love with New York that trip and with her, all over again.

The forth, we saw each other. Once. At a restaurant in midtown. Her new boyfriend and far happier mother in tow. She and I awkwardly hugged in greeting. I, had made the move to New York, and was overwhelmed. Her boyfriend at the time spent the dinner occupying my ability to be appropriate, and it resulted in his prompt departure while her mother and I consumed whiskey at a dive bar on the upper west side. Pianos and stolen glances. Seamed stockings and crushed hopes.

The fifth, I watched her perform on stage. Something I hadn't seen her do in years. And I was transported back to the first three, because on stage its easy to love her. And whatever malice I felt towards her was completely forgotten.

The sixth (this year), I forgot her birthday. I will not see her, and we are likely to not speak beyond a few texts. One for my attempt to assuage her disappointment for forgetting her birthday, and one for her to accept my apology. And let us not forget the yearly "Happy thanksgiving" text I have always received.

Perhaps its best this way, to be separated by miles of Americana, living in our respective circles of existence.

But every time I dance a tanda...I think of her.
Every time I write a word on a page...I think of her.
Every time I decide that tonight is a garters and cuban heeled stockings night...I think of her.

I wish she weren't just a few pages in a scrapbook--A collection of scalloped edged images pasted into their respective pages categorized by foods ate, experiences shared, dreams lost, kisses missed, birthday texts and presents shelved.

If you read this, which you likely will (and likely won't respond to), know that there are days...like today...where I still dream of tuscan homes, claw-footed bathtubs, linen curtains, and you.