Someday summer

Someday summer will come, and I will be cured of the relentless urge to re-mate, because all of the world will be mating then, and I will live vicariously through her many manifestations. 

Summer will come and the days will stretch long and hot and sweet.  I will buy or grow, and then cook: summer squash with basil and peppers, corn and oregano and greens.  I will eat it all by my lonesome, or I will share it with another human, and it will be delicious.  I will smile up at the sun, sitting out on the patio of my new home in East San Jose.

Someday summer will come and hopefully I won’t be as thick as I was before, but neither will I be so thin as I am now, where everyone who sees me comments on my changed face and shape.  I am sick with grief, and it is the dead of Winter, but the dead of Winter shall also pass.

Summer will come, and the all the women I desire now will possibly pass too, and the grief at losing my life mate will pass, but more slowly, or in nuances, somehow.  There is one woman in particular I like today, or rather am compelled by, and if she could stick around, in a good way that heals both of us, I would wish for that.  But whether she does or does not, I can hope and suppose that when summer finally gets her azz over here, there will be Analuz DeLeon and funny, quirky Mikha.  Mikha and I, in the summer or even in the dead of a dying Winter, can make fart jokes and laugh hysterically.  By this summer she will be six, and I will be forty.  I think that’s a good ratio.  And hopefully she will have not correctly learned how to pronounce my familial title, and will still scream “Marrina!” and greet me with a flying tackle. 

There will be (hope of hopes) beautiful centered Jen Johnson and brilliant Ben and adorable Becca, with Scott rumbling in the background.  Friend of my heart and unofficial, amazing, godkids.  There will (my G-ddess willing) be sweet, sweet Josie, the mothership, now with Tadeo and Joaquin too, and perhaps by the time summer has come around, I will be out of this crazy funky freaky space enough to have spent some serious chunks of time with them, and to know them, and for them to know my silly Tia face, if not by heart, then at least quite, quite well. 

And in the summer I think I will still have a lovely family and nieces, and call my Mom often, and pet the fat, purring, hopefully-reasonably-healthy Leopard until she drools.  And the body of sweet Georgia Brown will either have been brought to my new home, or left in this old garden of fatal grief, and either way it will be OK.  This summer, I hope that I will still work with that fierce tender red fox Stasia McGehee, and the days will pass far more quickly than they do now, in a haze of weeding and sweeping, and laughter – not like they used to, exactly, but not like they drag this Winter, either.  And we will be dancing-working-everything friends, like we were, and are, but with more happiness involved. 

And my beloved Perfessor Cindy will possibly still love me via Facebook and perhaps we’ll have gone for another intensely connective outing.  Who knows.

I can hope that by summer, I will be this strong, but much healthier, and this smart, but much happier, and that I will have taken even some teeny tiny slice of this crazy, debilitating, drooling grief, and turned it to my advantage.  Maybe I will be in a choir, or a band, a relationship, or a new school program for a brand-new degree in fabulousness.  Maybe I will just work and read and drink wine like I do now.  But I would like to be able to mention home, future, or partnership without the tears sneaking in and shredding me.

Hopefully I will have learned something, grown somewhat; I could imagine a day of basil stir fry and laughter when I look back on this pulverized, powerless winter and it feels far, far away.

And some day, in the heat of summer or thereafter, I may take walk with the woman who once was my mate, my wife without need of vows, my partner in love and in home, and ask her what happened, and how she left, and why.  And she may not be able to explain, because some things are beyond the explanation.  And I will accept that, since the lack of acceptance, is, perhaps, a small part of what caused the need for explanations in the first place.

Today of Christmas 2012 feels endless, obsessive; sick, and bad and doomed.  But whatever else I may or may not be, I am indeed an ecologist, and I know that someday, someday, SOME DAY, the summer will also come.