It's funny which people get included from year to year. Who gets subsumed into a general category and who stands out. Definitely some are always obviously there. Other times less so. And on we go again.
To the eleven year boy companion who held my hand as deep wretched splinters were dug out. You let me cry without a blush. A friend who hinted at the more that would come of bittersweet friendship longing to be something more. Who held the innocence of pre-adolescence in the same stroke. Who brought me lilacs and let me rest my head on his shoulder on one long and bumpy drive home
To my adolescent yearning, the friend who'd hold brotherly concern for me through a decade while I intermittently craved more. I wish I could have been more myself around you, but I learned so much and felt so watched out for when our lives intersected.
To the adolescent friend who'd yearn for me. Who'd hurt and be hurt in staggered measure over the decades and with whom I've shared exorcisms of latent desires and hurt feelings. Who took me in in my despondency more than once, and who shared melancholy pilgrimages to the desert before offering me your world. A world from which I'd gain so much before pushing myself back out of it.
The oh so painfully handsome teen heartthrob who chatted me up during the symphony, got my phone number from the drama teacher who knew my name and took me on my first proper dates. Who despite all the raging hormonal flirtation and raw chemistry, would somehow not go beyond a brushed hand (until an anticlimactic rematch several summers past). You loved earl gray tea and soundtrack compositions. You were really cute.
To my first proper kiss. Who stuck around but a little too timidly to keep my shy desperation from accepting another more aggressive suitor. Who had SO MUCH in common with me it was almost too expected for us to have connected. Who'd occasionally come close to something more several times more and who doggedly forgave me my inevitable betrayals. I wonder if your forgave my writing you into one of my last stories. I'm sorry. Very sorry. For many things.I'm glad you've mostly forgotten me.
To my first real boyfriend who quickly became a much closer brother and companion, as affection evolved into a more fraternal attachment. Your family welcomed me as their own. Your drumming on the edge of the navy parades and the times we held each other after hard school days, went on walks and stayed in contact to this day. You are my brother.
To the visiting student who gave me my first swept off your feet moment to the song Cheek to Cheek before disappearing as quickly as you materialized. It was a taste of many things to come on the dance floor.
To the men who preyed on the innocent little American girl on her first solo journeys and took a sense of security and autonomy that had to be clawed back over many years and experiences. Having to regain them taught me their worth.
To the boy who got further merely by popping up after the right number of drinks and resolve to move forward. Who muttered absurd poetry and was ready to be quickly forgotten having served his purpose.You were cute in a bowtie. And the girl who orchestrated it all, who would fling me through several romantic entanglements in almost scientific curiosity. The only woman to hold me while I cried. Boy we went through some things. It's so awesome to be friends still.
To the second-third-and-fourth-time who felt like the first-time. Whose infinite kindness and care for the world I briefly mistook for something more personal in a bashful haze of infatuation. For those fleeting moments of tenderness and affection that were mine alone. For the enduring patience and friendship you offered in lieu and for some years to come. You had my back if not my heart. The kindness in your eyes is unmatched by any in the world.
To the oh-so-many men I met online or at dances who made for funny stories, tasty dinners, and excellent refinements on what on earth I wanted and did not. You gave me great practice for job interviews to come and trained me to define my boundaries exactingly.
To the amazing friend who took my heart and mind and drank them down to the last drop with such zest that my dormant self woke up glowing and enthralled. Who saw me so deep I learned to see myself again. Who was meant for somebody else but still -like me - struggled with the gravity between our hearts.Who held my hand and then held me for the first time only when I understood we couldn't be friends anymore. In whom I melted so briefly, before mourning, and moving into the world with hope. I'm blessed to have found the enduring part of our friendship, but if I had never seen you again, you'd still always be with me. I will never stop seeking you.
To the antsy flash of momentary upstairs neighbor who offered me the exact opposite of the chaste emotional intensity I was mourning. You came. You offered release. You disappeared. Purpose served. I hope your new home was lovely.
To the sweetest of boyfriends I know I never deserved. Who brought me to a bowling alley bar and Old Country Buffet without an excess of irony. And so earnestly told me I was smart and beautiful. Who told stories of his Aussie childhood and his kangaroo pet. Whose sweetness I rapidly refused to savor for the stench of the cigarettes I'd never asked you to quit. The way I blew you off was lame, but I'm so so happy you're happy now.
To the adorable dance teacher with the silly mustache and sillier sense of humor. For a half second I thought I loved you a bit. Then I realized it was the dance you were giving me, which makes me love you so very differently. I still laugh thinking of your laugh.
To the deepest depths of my soul experienced with my tango crush over many years. It was an honor that you reciprocated that bashful affinity for our tandas. With whom many torrid and deeply affectionate nights were worn on the floor ending with a deep united breath and a bashful return to reality. (With a friendly wave to our significant others, because it all stayed on the dance floor.)
To the oh-so-achingly naughty tanguero who loved my moves, my curves and my loooooong hair, but just wasn't "in a place for anything serious." Your cologne stuck on my skin for days in tantalizing ways. Your adventurousness exceeded my capacity for emotional compartimalization. You stung, but you sure enthralled. And sometimes late at night you let me linger and shared grilled cheese with me. I never wanted to be a Bond girl, but it was an experience knowing how it might feel. Hope you're keeping on keeping on.
To the swing dancer whose deep family hurt emerged so painfully on our first weekend together. Who held to me then too closely and whose fears and pains caused you to withdraw, reach out, withdraw, reach out on and off again. Together we "watched" so many movies I'll never know the plots of. Had so many heartfelt tearful protestations only matched in intensity by the flirtation the next day that would lead into the next set of protestations and tears. You brought me into blues and the whole world that gave me. You made me laugh more than you made my cry, and both were often.
To the dance partner who wanted more. Who left me with beautiful photographs of myself and many wonderful dance memories between some very difficult heartfelt misunderstandings. Who stood by me during some difficult relationships but eventually couldn't stay when I did find truer love.
To the shy carpenter who kissed me quietly at a friendly party, then respectfully let me crash hard when sickness kicked in. Who a year later would run into me recoiling from another life-jolt and bring me into his cocoon for a short spell of respite from the stress and terror of first year of law school. Your fluffy cats. Your comfortable couch. Your big cozy bed. Dutch baby and coffee on lazy mornings. That passion you felt for sound. You didn't want to be there. And I was there. You let me know that I wanted *there* so much more tangibly. And you dumped my stressed out one-L tush, just in time to regain my composure and open up for the real event.
To so many more moments, flashes and connections. Those who hurt me. Those whom I've hurt. Those who drank from the depths of intimacy in a moment of musical crescendo.
Thanks for the lessons and the honing that left me available and whole enough to find my partner. Thank you for what we shared and what you taught me I still wanted to find. And thanks for the great break up soundtracks!
And to the guy who met me for tea by my apartment at the end of my 1 L year, talking about flip phones, and offering restrained hugs and tales of theater from the inside. Who was less interested in sweeping me off my feet than dipping me at the end of anumber, and waiting for me to kiss him squarely after a good night out. Who let me rest my head on his shoulder and watch the ocean while telling me about his family with some tone that we would meet some day. Who was there when my mom had cancer. There when my grandfather died. There when my grandmother died. There when school wore me down. And then when I emerged victorious. Who drove untold hours of commute to be with me.
Who became the man who stood with me through so many manifestations and challenges. Who doesn't necessarily understand but who earnestly loves and faces the difficult stuff with me every day. Who helped deliver the most amazing little monster into my arms and takes her back to hold when I need a break.
Who for ten years has persisted in choosing me and being chosen.
To everyone who has supported me through the tough times and rejoiced in the happy. Who witnessed our marriage as it formed or as its evolved.
Happy Valentine's Day
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