Today is Day 3. Three days in a row that I've used my french press. For years, it has stood in a corner on the kitchen counter, holding within it memories long (or is it recently?) forgotten. The few times I used it before Day 1, it held its words (or is it silence?) until it could finally exhale, releasing its bittersweet memories. Today, on Day 3 - as on Day 2 and Day 1 - I am hit by a cascade of forgotten memories. The kitchen is different, so is my past and perhaps my future. But as old unleashed memories mingle with ones being now made, they find their perfect match. New fears reach out to new ones; old hopes comfort new ones; the contours of new pain follow precisely those of old. Each finds solace in its reflection (although each is real). Do they recoil too at the presence of the other, when old sees no change in new, and new recognizes itself just as old?
I never wanted to be saved then (a good feminist never does). But as I stare at the ground coffee lying at the bottom of the french press, as I will myself to refuse its tempting coarseness, I remember, gratefully, that I was once healed. I thought, then, that I could heal myself (perhaps a good feminist always does), but I was wrong. As all the years of lonely strength finally flowed out of me - allowing me to be weak so that I could finally be strong again - my weakness grew into its own searing pain. And so I stand again with the french press. As the coarse grains of coffee beckon me, I wait again to be healed. This time though, perhaps, I am not the only one waiting.
It's been a year today - depending on how one counts a year, by days or dates. I know enough of that day to imagine it and you... in it. Sometimes it brings me uncanny comfort, sometimes saddened rage. But whatever guilt I felt a year ago is gone. For the anger that made me walk out on you a few days before you gone is still there, and would still be, if you were still here. But that, I realize now, is precisely why you were so special - one of the few who knew me at my weakest, and happiest; who I could be real with. I sometimes hated you, but I ever could stop loving you. You were so special, but the pit in your stomach refused to be filled. And so, I don't grudge what you did, I still just don't understand it.
Here's my dedication to you. To E, for making the weirdest dance moves look cool. :) Love.