door in italy

So often I’ve come here to unpack lessons from the mostly banal passing of days, interrupted though they were with brief adventures – glimpses of a rugged and glittering earth that asked only to be seen. Characters were met with expectant pause; nervous exchanges of secrets and histories hinted at what was to come, but always came to collapse in tired finales. The loose ends I tied up with lines I fashioned alone. Writing was a selfish act, a means of pressing the rough edges of experience into an object smooth enough to hold with both hands and examine, until it could be laid to rest in memory, the weight no longer a burden.

Then last summer, emboldened by too many drinks and the warm cover of twilight, I pushed gingerly at a door I hoped had not closed for the last time. It was not yet time for us, but I knew then, as I do now, that with our quiet admissions we had written the beginning of my favourite story. In that first embrace there was nothing left to unpack or make smooth, no lines to fashion beyond the ones spoken since in the precious minutes and hours we spent upon waking, nestled comfortably, as we were, in a universe for two.

I wonder how many great works of art were born of joy, of the sweet contentment that accompanies life’s pleasures, both simple and otherworldly. I wait patiently for prose, but I find myself too happily ensconced in these pages, some dog-eared and familiar, and some bursting with the bloom of seasons yet discovered. Still, I am certain that I must return here soon to document what I can of the mostly banal passing of days, coloured, though they are, by new and brilliant brushstrokes.

Life was good and beautiful before you, my love, but never have I yearned so ferociously to freeze time.