Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Of Spinning Ceiling Fan Blades

When he and I were still a we and we were still there, whenever we fought we'd lay on the floor and stare up at the spinning ceiling fan. We'd just lay there and stare until our hands found one another. I'm not sure how it happens to us as we grow up, but it stops being so easy. Ego, fear, a need to stand up for ourselves; something always gets in the way of muscle memory, of spinning ceiling fan blades.

It's the same with books. It used to be so easy to read. Now I find I pick up a book and if it isn't what I hoped it would be, I get bored or frustrated and set it away somewhere to collect dust forevermore. I just can't seem to let it be what it is. I just can't seem to let it surprise me. Maybe I'm terribly afraid it never will. Maybe my will is a little too much, even for me, even for books.

Here he and I are now, a we, still clinging to what and who we could be if we could just lay down and stare up and wait for our hands to find one another. I've watched him this past year grow into all these things I'd hoped he could be; for me and despite me. It's funny how we never see things changing; we only see them changed, surprised by quick glances in rearview mirrors as we reluctantly stumble from place to place and face to face. We wonder how we could have missed something so big.

I wonder how I could have missed something so big. I lay out on my back, limbs akimbo, and stare longingly at the empty ceiling. I hope our hands find one another.

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