This time of year is a tricky one. For no greater reason than convenience, we place importance on tying remembrances of events to the arbitrary act of the earth travelling around the sun another time. Should grief be heavier for a week every 365 days? Should the burden be greater when the calendar hits August 3rd again, even if this August has little to do with the ones before it? I suppose it happens this way because sadness needs an outlet and annually is the easiest way to ensure it has its out.
This timing is never easy, but this year has seemed to be a convergence zone. Throughout my life, I've gone through cycles of depression. When they happen, it's hard to see the forest for the trees: I can't really see I'm in one until I'm almost to a meadow. Of course, once you're out, you start to recognize the path that got you there, and this one had so many causes: a close relative of mine has been diagnosed with cancer, a dating schedule that, while absolutely worth it, has not left time for self-care, and for reasons that are still unclear to me, I've been exiled from the life of one of my best friends. All of these have been important aspects of the last few months, and each of them is worthy of its own blog post, but the reason the depression hit its nadir was by far the most bizarre: I've fallen in love.
Ann and I have been seeing each other for about three months now. Neither of us entered into this arrangement looking for love. We both were recently heartbroken and looking for something simple, but we ended up gambling our hearts without intending.
Ann was easy to fall in love with. I could go on about her beautiful eyes or her gorgeous smile, but what draws me to her most is her absolutely remarkable emotional intelligence. She certainly understands my new bisexual identity and is helping me explore it, but she also understands my needs as a widower, sometimes better than I do myself. She's bright and caring and witty and energetic. She had my heart before I knew what was going on, and falling in love without knowing it can be a scary thing for a widower.
About a month ago, we went to the wedding on the shores of Guemes Island for an old friend of Dahlia's and mine. He lived with Dahlia and I several years ago and help us renovate our house. He had known Dahlia since high school and she deeply admired his mother, who would also be in attendance. During the ceremony, we had a moment of silence for the departed loved ones. Dahlia's name punctuated a list of grandfathers and great aunts.
We danced the night away and basked in the support of old friends. Many of them mentioned to me about how happy I looked, or to Ann about how happy she made me. We drank summer punch, smoked weed and caught up with long lost acquaintances. We danced to old Motown hits and new pop anthems. We danced caught up in the torrent of lust and alcohol and the budding love of a new romance. Then a song came on that hit me hard, a song I had requested when I sent in my invitation.
It was Dahlia's and my wedding song. I danced it with Dahlia's best friend, up from Arizona. We both failed to keep it together by the end of the first verse. By the end of the four minute song, there wasn't a dry eye among those who knew Dahlia. When the song ended, we all embraced, finding community in our sorrow. I went back to the table to see Ann, my eyes red from the tears and earlier pot smoke. She saw me at my most vulnerable and returned my gaze with one of admiration. It's something I didn't fully recognize at the time, but we were falling in love.
I was completely overwhelmed. During and after the song, I could feel Dahlia's presence. Not in any spiritual sense, but her memories were very forward in my mind. I thought about all the people at the wedding who cared for her and what they must think of me lustfully dancing with another woman. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced of my own wrongdoing. I was flaunting my desire in front of a group of mourners.
I kissed Ann and apologized as I left the wedding to sit on the beach and clear my head. I thought long and hard about what Dahlia would think of all this. As I returned to the wedding, I dismissed my relationship with Ann as harmless pleasure seeking. That it was a brief phase of hedonism that the wedding-goers may not be able to understand, Dahlia most certainly would. What I didn't recognize was clear to everyone else at the wedding, I was falling in love with Ann.
It took me another month to say the words to her, and by that time the anniversary of Dahlia's death was nearing. I think there's always a fear in saying "I love you," but for a widower there's something more; there's the fear of moving on. I never fell out of love with Dahlia, so falling in love with Ann has required holding two conflicting desires in my heart. As soon as I told her I loved her, I burst into tears. I cried for the fear. I cried for the lifted weight. I cried for the deep, strong desire for Dahlia to be there in her stead. I cried and she didn't shy away. She leaned into it and I only loved her more.
It’s taken me some time to realize that my love for Ann isn't a conflict. I can love her for different reasons than the ones that drew me to Dahlia. Falling in love again doesn't have to be about moving on or finding closure. If anything, Ann is precious to me precisely because Dahlia died. She respects my need for distance at times. She wants to help me explore my new queer identity. She opens herself up to me in a way Dahlia rarely did. This whole thing, perhaps, is not an exercise in replacement, but rather one of creation.
No comments:
Post a Comment