I suppose I thought that because I could keep the days slow and humdrum and even, the changes would stay small and incremental.
What has been frozen within begins to thaw, the sheets of protective glass begin to shatter. The memories take on taste and smell and newness and a sharp bitter quality of regret. The life put aside begins to re-assert itself with a vehemence that is at the same time thrilling, immature and acutely uncomortable.
Yesterday. Sitting in the midst of a gathering of friends. My tenderness towrds Hamilton and his brother Donny, two frail elderly men, their sons and daighter and grandchildren, their family friends all around. Loud, exuberant and affectionate luncheon with platters of food. The wine didn’t bother me. And after seven months, my not drinking was a non-event.
Al fresco under the vines, the sun coming and going behind clouds. Peter F, tipsy and laughing, teasing his sister over the table, leans across to me and ruffles my hair, then without thinking rubs and caresses my neck. Has Peter ever touched me before? The heat starts at my ankles and burns up to dampness. I can feel myself flushing, burning, the desire catches me off guard. I want to lean into the caress and moan softly, stretch towards him. I don’t move, I hold still, but my body tingles and burns with anticipation. It is so surprising I can hear my breath catch. I shift away slightly. Peter pauses and looks round, smiles at me. I smile back. Warm, familiar, reassuring.
Libidinal energies I didn’t know existed. Would I have this rebirth any other way?
