Dragonfly,
There is so much I want you to know. I wish I didn’t have to say it, that you could just touch the skin of my arm and nod and know. You are no mind reader, and I will just have to accept that fact and attempt to explain what I need to communicate. I know how you appreciate artistic flair, so I’ll try to be as ostentatious as possible in how I present this to you. I hope this seems pretentious enough.
I’m sorry. That’s what I want to say first. I mean this genuinely, lovingly, and breathlessly. There are so many instances where those words should have left my mouth but instead I left my speech bubble glaringly blank. They aren’t difficult words to say: “Sorry,” mumbled to the person you bumped into at the checkout line at Sobey’s; “So sorry,” said sarcastically to your sister when she shouts from the hall; “I’m sorry?” said when you’ve been insulted, or misheard a word; “I am so sorry,” blurted in a gush after you’ve spilled coffee all over a stranger; “I’m sorry,” whispered quietly with hardly a hint of breath or inflection after a fight, worn down and desperate. There are millions of ways to say those words, and every time I say them it isn’t the right way.
I should have said sorry to you that first night you left, when I ran after you and stopped you at the corner. Your body was shaking so hard because it was winter and nighttime and snowing, and you were freezing. I should have said it a million times over. “I’m sorry. I am so sorry, because I hurt you and knew it and did it anyway.” I’m sorry for that.
I should have said sorry to you when I locked us in the bathroom at Laide. You smirked and spoke meanly, but every word was true, and when you left me alone I was frustrated and angry and relieved. I should have said sorry to you and let you go. “I’m sorry, so sorry, because I led you on and made a face when you told me that I was being absolutely stupid.” I’m sorry for that too.
I should have said sorry when you saw everything explode. You were standing in the doorway behind me, your fists clenched together while I screamed at my wife and tore everything apart. You should not have been there; I should have waited, but I simply could not hold my anger, and once I finished thoroughly destroying everything there, I yelled at you in the parking lot and you were shocked and hurt and tired. I should have apologized for losing my temper, for creating problems. “I’m so sorry, baby, so sorry because I made things more difficult than they need to be, because I may as well have smacked you to achieve the same effect.” I’m so sorry for it.
There are so many more pockets of empty air that should hold those words for you.
I worry. That is what is second on my mind. I mean this in the least nagging way possible, and with all the love that I can give to you. I spend moments in agony worrying about you, hoping that everything will be okay. There are so many things to worry over: you’ve lost weight, you’ve lost sleep, you’ve wasted time, you’ve been hurt. I wish I could close my fist around every bad situation you’ve ever found yourself in and squeeze it until it turns to dust in my hands. You suffer panic attacks, harsh minutes of intense fear, where every muscle in your body tenses and you can barely breathe enough to stay on your feet. I suffer from attacks of worry, where I cannot stop thinking of my own inadequacies when it comes to protecting you.
I worried when you told me about your childhood, about every cruel punishment your mother made up to enforce her tyranny. I discovered scars, a patch of vaguely reddened skin on your forearm; you told me about bleeding gums and hypothermia, naked feet on hot asphalt, scaling the backyard fence and baths in bleach. I feel responsible; I should have protected you. I should have swooped into that Ottawa suburb and rescued you from your memories of the taste of sweat and the irregular melody of the wind chimes on the back porch as you hid beneath the deck with your face in the dirt. I worry that you could have had a better life if I had somehow got you away from there.
I worried when I got a phone call in the dark morning, hours before dawn, Charlotte’s voice on the brink of tears, “Thank God it’s you! I need your help!” I drove to her house and you were locked in the bathroom without a sound, and Charlotte’s shirt was covered in blood. I banged on the door and screamed at you, screamed things I would never say if I thought you were alive. When the door finally opened and you were drunk and confused and not bleeding anymore, Charlotte was relieved that it was only a nosebleed, but I worried still. I worry still.
I worried when I found out you were in the hospital (lover, you really do have the worst luck), and I couldn’t get there fast enough. You were bruised and bandaged, trying to smile and convince me you were really just fine. There were whispered words to me, the whole story, the begging for my confidentiality. I acquiesced to silence, and I worry that I was wrong to do so. Maybe I should have pushed you to press charges. I should have been there to stop the whole thing from happening. I worry that it would have made a difference for you to see some sort of justice.
My worry does nothing to help you, and I know it. Attach yourself to me, dragonfly. Never leave my side.
I love you. There is the third. Never doubt this, because no matter how frustrated or upset or angry we are, I always love you. Especially when your lips are dark and you toss in the kind of sleep you only fall into when you are at the point of exhaustion, your poor body straining against itself, grinding and creaking and sighing in the dark. I never say it to you enough; I love you. I do think it should be a new form of punctuation; I love you. Instead of periods or exclamation points or questions, we express our love; I love you. I love you, I do; I love you. I can hear you groan even now. Maybe that was an overshot, too pretentious. I love you.
And I just want to tell you that no matter what happens, I will always remain with you. You enjoy our metaphors, so here is one: I am the telamon, fixed in my place and waiting. I am made of the sort of stone that cracks and loses parts. You are my dragonfly, my best friend, and my lover, perched on the stone. I am not alive without your wings to hum me to peace.
With every emotion, your telamon, made of stone, please land on me; Matthew.
There is so much I want you to know. I wish I didn’t have to say it, that you could just touch the skin of my arm and nod and know. You are no mind reader, and I will just have to accept that fact and attempt to explain what I need to communicate. I know how you appreciate artistic flair, so I’ll try to be as ostentatious as possible in how I present this to you. I hope this seems pretentious enough.
I’m sorry. That’s what I want to say first. I mean this genuinely, lovingly, and breathlessly. There are so many instances where those words should have left my mouth but instead I left my speech bubble glaringly blank. They aren’t difficult words to say: “Sorry,” mumbled to the person you bumped into at the checkout line at Sobey’s; “So sorry,” said sarcastically to your sister when she shouts from the hall; “I’m sorry?” said when you’ve been insulted, or misheard a word; “I am so sorry,” blurted in a gush after you’ve spilled coffee all over a stranger; “I’m sorry,” whispered quietly with hardly a hint of breath or inflection after a fight, worn down and desperate. There are millions of ways to say those words, and every time I say them it isn’t the right way.
I should have said sorry to you that first night you left, when I ran after you and stopped you at the corner. Your body was shaking so hard because it was winter and nighttime and snowing, and you were freezing. I should have said it a million times over. “I’m sorry. I am so sorry, because I hurt you and knew it and did it anyway.” I’m sorry for that.
I should have said sorry to you when I locked us in the bathroom at Laide. You smirked and spoke meanly, but every word was true, and when you left me alone I was frustrated and angry and relieved. I should have said sorry to you and let you go. “I’m sorry, so sorry, because I led you on and made a face when you told me that I was being absolutely stupid.” I’m sorry for that too.
I should have said sorry when you saw everything explode. You were standing in the doorway behind me, your fists clenched together while I screamed at my wife and tore everything apart. You should not have been there; I should have waited, but I simply could not hold my anger, and once I finished thoroughly destroying everything there, I yelled at you in the parking lot and you were shocked and hurt and tired. I should have apologized for losing my temper, for creating problems. “I’m so sorry, baby, so sorry because I made things more difficult than they need to be, because I may as well have smacked you to achieve the same effect.” I’m so sorry for it.
There are so many more pockets of empty air that should hold those words for you.
I worry. That is what is second on my mind. I mean this in the least nagging way possible, and with all the love that I can give to you. I spend moments in agony worrying about you, hoping that everything will be okay. There are so many things to worry over: you’ve lost weight, you’ve lost sleep, you’ve wasted time, you’ve been hurt. I wish I could close my fist around every bad situation you’ve ever found yourself in and squeeze it until it turns to dust in my hands. You suffer panic attacks, harsh minutes of intense fear, where every muscle in your body tenses and you can barely breathe enough to stay on your feet. I suffer from attacks of worry, where I cannot stop thinking of my own inadequacies when it comes to protecting you.
I worried when you told me about your childhood, about every cruel punishment your mother made up to enforce her tyranny. I discovered scars, a patch of vaguely reddened skin on your forearm; you told me about bleeding gums and hypothermia, naked feet on hot asphalt, scaling the backyard fence and baths in bleach. I feel responsible; I should have protected you. I should have swooped into that Ottawa suburb and rescued you from your memories of the taste of sweat and the irregular melody of the wind chimes on the back porch as you hid beneath the deck with your face in the dirt. I worry that you could have had a better life if I had somehow got you away from there.
I worried when I got a phone call in the dark morning, hours before dawn, Charlotte’s voice on the brink of tears, “Thank God it’s you! I need your help!” I drove to her house and you were locked in the bathroom without a sound, and Charlotte’s shirt was covered in blood. I banged on the door and screamed at you, screamed things I would never say if I thought you were alive. When the door finally opened and you were drunk and confused and not bleeding anymore, Charlotte was relieved that it was only a nosebleed, but I worried still. I worry still.
I worried when I found out you were in the hospital (lover, you really do have the worst luck), and I couldn’t get there fast enough. You were bruised and bandaged, trying to smile and convince me you were really just fine. There were whispered words to me, the whole story, the begging for my confidentiality. I acquiesced to silence, and I worry that I was wrong to do so. Maybe I should have pushed you to press charges. I should have been there to stop the whole thing from happening. I worry that it would have made a difference for you to see some sort of justice.
My worry does nothing to help you, and I know it. Attach yourself to me, dragonfly. Never leave my side.
I love you. There is the third. Never doubt this, because no matter how frustrated or upset or angry we are, I always love you. Especially when your lips are dark and you toss in the kind of sleep you only fall into when you are at the point of exhaustion, your poor body straining against itself, grinding and creaking and sighing in the dark. I never say it to you enough; I love you. I do think it should be a new form of punctuation; I love you. Instead of periods or exclamation points or questions, we express our love; I love you. I love you, I do; I love you. I can hear you groan even now. Maybe that was an overshot, too pretentious. I love you.
And I just want to tell you that no matter what happens, I will always remain with you. You enjoy our metaphors, so here is one: I am the telamon, fixed in my place and waiting. I am made of the sort of stone that cracks and loses parts. You are my dragonfly, my best friend, and my lover, perched on the stone. I am not alive without your wings to hum me to peace.
With every emotion, your telamon, made of stone, please land on me; Matthew.
