Tuesday, November 11, 2008 @ 6:42:00 PM
Vanishing Acts
Maybe Fate isn't the pond you swim in but the fisherman floating on top of it, letting you run the line wild until you are weary enough to be reeled back in.
-
Eric nods; he has been there himself - on both ends of the equation. You cannot depend on an alcoholic, so you learn to live for the moments when they are present. You tell yourself you'll leave, but then they do something wonderful that reels you back: host a picnic on the living room floor in January; find the face of Jesus in the pancake; celebrate a cat's birthday by inviting all the other neighbourhood cats for tuna. You use all the good times to paint over the bad, and pretend you can no longer see the grain of wood that she's made of. You watch her wade through sobriety and secretly wish she would drink, because that is when she turns into the person you love; and then you cannot figure out who you hate more: yourself for thinking this, or her for reading your mind.
Eric stares at me, putting together everything I've said so far. 'You loved her. You still love her.'
'I never stopped,' I admit.
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