Love & Darts Read online

protective phrase is so devastating. “Leave him alone.” We jump to the defense, but what do we say? We say, “Leave him alone.” Where is the hope of a connection? Where is the promise of a relationship? Where is the unified front? It must not be. Leave him alone. The most courageous phrase we can utter is for another to be left and to be the only one around.

  So true underneath. So horrible in the living out.

  But She is there, Dad. Don’t worry. She is waiting with some kind of release. She sings and mends her nets. She works the fields of the sky and undoes the doing up. She must not be afraid, like I am. She must not be buried alive by this, like I am. She must already know. So I trust her. I have to. Become your own time of leave him alone. Become your own beautiful way. And even if I’m left alone I will be with you tiling the floors, painting the doorjambs, picking out Christmas trees, sweeping the gravel off the driveway, trimming the juniper bushes, and watching so many birds fly.

  VARIANCE

  Men vary. There are those who move into this world with a blithe confidence. And there are those who, like myself, are weary at the neck of the hourglass.

  I’m waiting for my lover in the pebbled courtyard of our fifth-favorite restaurant. We chose it not because it’s cheap but because it’s close to his work.

  I hate iconic, banal shit like my father’s dying. Part of me even hates this May blue sky.

  I am aware of my own presence so much sometimes. It’s like I’m here, I’m me, but I’m also this self-consciousness, this constant kind of correction. Self-control. Self-discipline. Self-awareness. All of it right here under this pecan tree. And not only here. Everywhere I go it goes—walking, working, even going home. Especially going home. I just keep cutting away what’s unacceptable and expressing what others will tolerate, can handle, will accept, will love—well, will at least not criticize.

  Today is a clean day that makes you want ice water and a swim of absolution. Above me—not just me—there is one of those full blue skies that you always want to remember in November.

  On days this gorgeous it seems possible to capture the beauty of that kind of atmospheric blue. Wouldn’t it be nice to keep some bit of it, some twist, some lovely description of the sky, some transcendent pleasure that transports you deeper, further, and with ease? Go ahead and try. Try to keep some of the sky for days when crappy gray cloud cover obscures the light. You won’t possibly be able to remember this much blue. You cannot hold any great sky in your mind for long. The frustration of the attempt is too much. In November you’ll just get pissed off doing your best to envision a May sky.

  Don’t bother with any duality of the material and the mind. What’s the point? Let the blue sky go. Get rid of it. Get rid of it and the memories of your dad listening to The Allman Brothers Band in the basement. Get rid of the lyrics that keep coming back: ‎Turn your love my way.

  Don’t do it. Don’t let him win. Don’t let the world’s pressure separate you from who you are. Hold on. Stay here. Don’t give up. Not again. Even if you were the second inadequate person in your father’s righteous world.

  The blue sky is unrelated to the material you and unrelated to your dealing with your immaterial dead dad shit. Grief is nothing. Your father’s dying without knowing the real you is nothing. It does not matter.

  Prove it?

  Fine. But can it be done? Can any of this leftover love-like destruction be rationalized?

  Because first off: The lovely, spring blue sky is not unrelated to material you because you're breathing it; you're alive inside of all that air. Fine. So. There's a real interaction there that cannot be denied.

  Secondly: That May blue heaven is not unrelated to immaterial you because the color of the sky affects your mood. It lifts your spirits when you're dealing with your dead-dad-grief shit.

  Just get over it and cope. Plenty of people have secrets.

  And this suffering is only like clothes. So. Get up; put on your shoulds.

  Something is in conflict. You’re sitting at a table under a pecan tree, the sky is cheering you up, but you shouldn’t be cheered up. Press your arm over your eyes. Stay with the appropriate grief that makes you a better person. You need the gravity. You need the sadness. You need the import. There are shoulds for everything, especially now with all this dead-dad-grief shit. Don’t you dare feel the wrong emotions right now. This is no time to enjoy the expanse of a blue above and beyond who and what you are.

  You most need the situation to make sense. If a tragedy has occurred, it should be tragic. You should feel the tragedy of an unexpected death. Your father’s unexpected death is tragic. You should not be filled with joy, with gladness, with thanksgiving, with relief, with finality and freedom. Something is wrong. Amiss.

  And don’t whisper anything long-suppressed like, That’s what happens when the abuser dies.

  You cannot admit gratitude, satisfaction, glee, or any spirit of karmic vengeance. That would be wrong. And yet. What you feel is that whole fantastic May blue sky filling you with renewed life.

  You smile your liberated loneness into the blue, alert and ready to wipe that smug smirk off your face if the waiter walks by. And you should do it now anyway because your partner will be here soon. He won’t understand if you’re sitting there all giddy, happy, and free. So. Sit up. Stop gloating about your well-deserved freedom under the big blue sky. Just be glad, proportionally glad, that it’s not tropically humid today. That the air is easy. And that you are no longer alone dealing with your dead-dad-grief shit. You’re you. A person who can say to himself: I’m waiting to meet my lover here.

  River pebbles are the floor of the courtyard and square stepping-stones make a path for the waitress to make her rounds like a geisha bending her head to miss pruned cherry branches burdened with their blossoms. The tables are old iron and glass. The menus are beautiful, written in an almost illegible script. The fountain makes it difficult to eavesdrop. The wine is white and doesn’t mind at all.

  He’ll be late.

  So you have time to recover and find yourself again in the moment.

  Take the pill. At least take half of it.

  Don’t you realize? You’re the first person now.

  And, yeah, I’m glad to be back in New Orleans. There is a lady dressed in a bright pink Irish linen dress and a broad white hat walking two greyhounds. They are like deer and stop to stare at me through the cast iron fence. She moves on easily and they follow, leaving the good restaurant smells behind. The gentleman at the corner table chews his cigar and snaps a newspaper in reaction to an editorial. A waitress appeases him with an artichoke and watercress salad. He puts the paper away and thanks her. “Thanks.” The cigar, not quite out, lies forgotten in an ashtray. The smell reminds me of my uncle, my father’s older brother who shook uncontrollably, silent through the funeral.

  But I’m not home anymore. I’m here where two sisters celebrate a thirty-something birthday with too many drinks in the afternoon. They don’t usually drink in the afternoon, you can tell. They probably don’t usually drink at all. But it’s a thirty-something birthday and so the table rattles between the slipping elbows and the patio stones. They laugh easily and look alike when they do.

  Shadows dance across the white napkin in my lap. The leaves of the pecan tree are high above my head, so the shadows are subtle; the grays smudge into each other. Their dance is a flirtation with the wind and falls into my napkin. Half an alprazalam half an hour ago helps sooth the shadows. And I succumb.

  “Have you decided?” She is beautiful like a raven on a glacier in the sun. And I cannot look at her. She is a dancer just getting through school with this job. We’ve spoken before. She knows my friend—my partner, my lover: well, I guess he is my friend—better.

  “No. I’ll just wait to order. Except for a smidge of spaghetti. Can I just have some plain noodles on a fancy tiny dish with a little pesto? Call it a salad and forgive me.”

  “Sure.” She fills up the water again. “Are you doing okay?”

&
nbsp; I smile.

  And she gives up. “More wine?”

  “Bring the rest of this bottle and chill another. He’ll be here soon.”

  The gentleman in the corner decides on dessert. It seems he has opted out of the main course in order to spend his calories on a piece of pie. Good decision.

  A couple, tourists, are seated between me and the fountain. I was watching the fountain so now I am watching the tourists. They are looking around. Looking up at the pecan tree. Looking up at the striped awning that sags over the entry to the courtyard. Looking over at the antique ironwork fountain. Looking at the tiles on the restaurant walls. Looking at the detail in the cast iron fence—cattails and rushes as would surround a stream. Looking at the ironwork of the tables which are frogs bounding up and down splashes of water. Looking at the flagstones and pebbles and the beautiful raven waitress who takes them their water. The lady has cellulite on her thighs and wears comfortable socks. The man is wearing a French Quarter hat that he likely just bought today. They are the explorers of our time. Pacific and glad someone has done it all before. But they are humbled by decision-making. They share one menu. Sweetly.

  There is sun in my wine. But I don’t care. I drink it anyway.

  She brings me my little dish of spaghetti. It looks like a sundae. There is spaghetti in a fancy tiny bowl with a