It didn’t occur to me, that it was possible it could happen again — I mean, I couldn’t imagine what the odds would be and math isn’t my strong suit, anyway. And, yes, there is no doubt in my mind that my life is fucking magic, I see proof of it every day — but I’m also not a complete fool, you know? Last time was along about five years ago, the second of January, as I drove north out of town on the 405 freeway, the day that I left L.A. With each passing mile I felt the end of one story fall away, the new beginning of another coalescing before my eyes and in my mind…
I can’t tell you what it was, exactly, that brought it on when I left to meet her that evening in Oaktown, not nervous at all, which is totally out of character, cause I’m not smooth or whatever at all. I felt, though, that my life was about to change and scribbled it in my tiny notebook as I rode the tunnels in the last car of the train.
We walked out of the bar that night and on to the next place, a chill brought on by the blowing of the breeze between the buildings downtown, she hooked her arm through mine and it felt like the most natural thing — another feeling brought, too, a new adventure in a place I’d never imagined was possible. As I recall it, I can’t remember if it was before or after we both waxed romantic on Toulouse-Lautrec, and as I recall it, I can’t remember if it was before or after that I knew I was done for, either.
A couple of days after that she asked whether it’s possible to know in four minutes that you’re in love with someone. I thought, quietly, to myself, of course, absolutely, and told her later that in extremely, very rare cases one could even know in four texts.
Before, actually, now that I’m thinking about it, if my Peter Pan memory is serving me well as I write this, when she waxed on her books and the authors that wrote them and the things her Father always told her, revealing herself as the song from the pan flute of my pen.
Christmas Eve, met up with a friend for some last minute shopping, my life all of sudden including a family to buy for — my bird and her little bee. We walked the gauntlet of street vendors on Telegraph, a scarf caught my eye, hanging beneath a tarp and blowing in breeze, Peter Pan green, like her eyes — feminine, embroidered with pink.
I’d slowly emerged from the wreckage and the darkness of the past two years — the death of the father that never was and the string of toxic paramours that followed, chaos fairies of the finest order, I must say. I felt the moment as it passed, the weight, quite literally, lifted off of my shoulders. It’s quite possible I might have pushed it off, myself. I can’t really be sure. Entanglements written away and then my own admission, finally laying claim to my dream.
We’ve lived a beautiful, two month blur together in our Neverland, unexpected she making her nest in the strong and loving house of my name, drawing out my strong and loving Pan as she lays her head upon my chest, the birds inked on our bodies tangling up together her hand on my shoulder, comforting my broken little girl just with her presence.
Their birthdays aren’t very far apart, you know…
I am living with her the beginning of a story that reads like one of the many happy endings I’ve written for myself over the years and the one I gave myself that day that I drove out of L.A. Only now my ending is real — my bird, my Wendy doesn’t grow up and Syrinx does hear my song.
These are the pages I know that I’ll surround myself with, pinned up on the walls as the world burns down all around us.