By Grace

By the grace of whoever might be holy I met you. And so you were. Just. There.

There were days when you and I would spar at words over judges tables. Those days, I couldn’t imagine sparing with anyone else but you. But we were young, and you were beowolf and I but a petty attempt at shel silverstein. Our poetry was not our own, and we were but mirrors of the people we wanted to be…You something guarded and secret. Myself veiled in humor and drama….

And years past. But somehow we were brought together again. Monologues messed up. Poetry botched. Parents unexpected visits in tiny apartments. Virgina Woolf and secluded kisses. Those moments were hard to repeat and began our vicious cycle of the “what ifs” and “what could have been’s”.

It was Virginia, she was the woman who brought us together. We spoke of hidden waves and flowers bought. We hoped that these words would seal some binds between us…but oh we were mistaken. Visits across rivers were made. Kisses were exchanged, but still that was not enough to keep us together.

One spring we spent a few nights in a king sized bed. Opposite sides. Cues missed. Kisses lost. Drinking mike’s hard lemonades on playgrounds that reminded us that we were no longer children, but at the same time, we weren’t adults. An impass. Childhood and adulthood lay between us, and so we sat on playgrounds hoping that answers would spring forth. The picnic benches were not for us, but neither was the spiral slide. Somewhere in the gravel was where we belonged. But afraid we sat, alcohol in hand, silence ringing school bells somewhere.

Another summer I spent ten hours driving to you. Hours on the road to the middle of nowhere. And there you were—broken, shattered, perfect. We had a taste then, but the morning left nothing but tequila regrets etched in our palms, where love should have been. We shopped for heirloom tomatoes, and gleefully watched a juices spat between our lips. But both were too shy to explain why and how these came.

And now, years later I still wonder what should have happened. What could have happened.

I remember lying in your arms just praying for a miracle.

Those were stolen kisses meant for no one but us.

Phone calls begging for answers.

Messages. Emails. Dreams. Words. Lost.

Somedays I wish I could lie in those arms again. Older, wiser. More us. The us that could’ve told us back then that heirloom tomatoes, tequila, love, and Woolf were one in the same.

To the Woman I Love

She came out of nowhere. One day she wasn’t in my life, the next day she was one of the main thoughts on my mind. There was something about her. A quiet confidence, a subtlety to her entire demeanor that called to me. Something in me begged for more. More contact, more exchanged glances, more words passed between us.

I’d have assumed she was an angel if a) that weren’t so damned clichéd and b) I don’t believe in angels.

I remember very little of how we met (sometime at rugby), how we became acquaintances (eventually by talking to each other), then friends. And maybe I remember so little, because it was so uneventful. So easy. Too easy somedays.

But there she was, a member of my team. A team made up of 40 some-odd women, all of whom were so incredibly different, my mind often felt boggled. But it was her whom everyday would stir something in me. It was her that everywhere I went I was sad to see her go.

I remember Philly.

Had hoped we’d share a room, but instead she stayed elsewhere, without the team. And just like that, she vanished into the city as I awaited a few days to see her again.

I remember the ranch.

Where the two of us suffered under the watch of our rugby coach, hauling palettes, drinking fresh spring water from spiggets in the ground, sleeping in military tents to shield us from the brisk mountain air. She loaned me her jersey because I was cold, and I remember the way it smelled. The way everything she touches smells.

I remember being excited that she was coming with us to Chicago, and devastated when she had to cancel.

And I remember Austin, and the text messages I received from teammates—‘You’re reading into things…’ ‘She isn’t into you…’ ‘Not everyone has a crush on you…’

And from there I hedged. Wrote emails asking for a dinner date, which I never sent. Made plans to visit her in Cheyenne, and promptly cancelled them as butterflies became maelstroms in my gut. We exchanged a few emails; she said she’d be at xyz party. I would always spend the evening curled up alone in bed, not wanting her to see me at my worst or even at my best.

Fate would have it that you can’t hide from such things forever. And a text came, and plans were made. Liquid courage was consumed. And finally, I said something akin to nonsense but along the lines of “Um…I like you. Not just like you but like like you”. Somehow that was all that was required. And just like that there was something more.

Indescribable, simple, peaceful, easy.

To say she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me would be dramatic. But to say I am lucky would be an understatement.

I’d tell you she’s an angel, but we all know what I feel about that.

Dear Santa Part II

I must thank you for granting my x-mas wish. Even though I likely should be thanking Senator Lieberman.

The result is hope that me and the woman I am falling in love with may not be so far away from the life we hope to lead together.

Thank you. A million times thank you.

dear santa

All I want this year for Christmas is the repeal of the ridiculous military policy that is Don't Ask, Don't Tell.

Thank you.

maybe its just me...

Apparently I have a brain that traps everything in it and won't let any memories go.

The X just sent me a video to a song we both used to listen to obsessively...In fact it was on one of the first mix CDs I made her. And she sent it to me. Like I had never heard it.

Really X? Sigh.

Maybe its time to just write this one off.

viscountess francaise

Typical Sunday ritual in NYC for nearly 2.5 years: My partner-in-crime-and-in-love and I drank coffee in our petite home with our three cats and dog. She worked on her projects, I read the New York Times. I always start with the wedding section. There is something masochistic about this, especially in the shadow of said partner. Engaged and broken up ten times over. Nothing ever fit right, everything was always in flux. But nevertheless I dreamt of Williams and Sonoma wedding registries fulfilled (we’d had two), white dresses (I’d bought one and returned it a week later tearfully) and the thought that someone, anyone would be willing to stand in front of everyone I love and scream at the top of their lungs “I LOVE YOU!”

So each and every Sunday went this way. Me signing my dreams into thin newspaper. Staining my fingers with ink; my teeth with coffee. Her blissfully unaware of my swoons over fanciful dreams that I knew would never be reality. At least not with her.

But one Sunday in July, I opened the newspaper to see her. A brief tryst of mine I’d all but locked away in my brittle heart. The woman that left me sobbing on my living room floor after she rode off into the sunrise on her motorcycle, never to be seen again.

We met at a birthday party in Phnom Penh, during my sojourn into expatriotism in Cambodia. To say Cambodia was devoid of lesbians was an understatement. At best count there were only 10 or so. And even then, they were mostly partnered off. But there she was and there I was. We sat awkwardly unsure as whether to call out the other. And finally it slipped out “My ex-GIRLfriend”. We both stopped dead in our tracks and giggled. Now that it was out in the open, we spoke openly about the women we had left at home. The frustration that we felt being gay in Cambodia, our experiences at various upper echelon institutes of higher education.

And that was that. Three blissful months of speaking an odd mixture of Khmer, French and English all while gallivanting around on motorcycles. We ran errands together. Spent time entangled in sheets speaking whispers of dreams. We argued over topics of philanthropy, NGO policy, water distribution issues and much more. I took care of her during a delerious fever; fed her soup and made the compresses. All the while, I knew I was but the fill-in housewife. Knew there was a woman back stateside whom I could not even begin to compare to. This was a delusion, but one that we both bought into willingly.

We had thought we’d have more time. My plan had been to spend at least the following semester in Phnom Penh, but due to unforeseen circumstances I was leaving on New Year’s Eve. She was leaving before Christmas and wouldn’t be home until after I had left.

The morning came for her to return home for the holidays, and I knew I would soon be a distant memory. She said her goodbyes, kissed me, and rode away…..

And now, nearly two years later, there she was, smiling ear to ear with her now wife, printed on millions of copies of the Times. Both were dressed in white with the Northern California ocean as their picturesque backdrop. The article read something like this: "Lady A and Lady B wed in San Francisco among friends and family. Lady A (my lady) is the daughter of Viscount A and the late Viscountess A".

Well, shit was all I could think to mutter.

The woman who left me alone in Cambodia with my heart all but shattered was god damned French royalty.

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.