Spooning

Ireland held me in Her lush embrace for six years. Atlantic waves and winds infused my veins with wild, and pulsated. She and the sea became the great loves of my life.

And then I let Her go.

I’ve blamed my leaving on Ireland’s dwelling drought. Six moves in less than three years, with nothing on my housing horizon that resembled stability. Yes, that stress was a strong catalyst. But it was hope that ultimately replanted me on a plane to America.

Parts of my heart were mended by life in Ireland, then gilded in green. She helped prepare me for a patient love’s gold. I did not rush my return to California, and yet, change came like a landslide once I’d decided.

With two bruised suitcases and boxes of books I’d written, I nestled back beneath the mountain’s shadow. Trees, walks with friends, and vibrant memories we’d made long before cell phones, sweetened the song of our small town. As did savoring fresh coffee with a vintage love.

…

He knew my face when I was all freckles and no wrinkles. I knew his beard when he was all pepper and no salt. Decades later, we reunited for soft morning smiles exchanged over mismatched mugs. Mine, a speckled blue with golden flecks. His was glazed emerald like lily pads.

He stood behind me when I poured from the French Press, unfurled his arms, and wrapped steady strength around us. My body swirled inside like creamer I added to our mugs. Then I turned, handed him a heart-shaped spoon, and stood back with a smile. His dimples surfaced. After a quick dip, stir, and tap, he transferred that same spoon into my mug.

The simplicity of that moment. No, the intimacy of his gesture, was worth waiting over twenty years for. I stirred but did not swoon, placed the spoon in the sink, and absorbed our coffee-coated warmth.

…

Weekly rituals, like our mug-filled mornings, have helped me feel grounded. So do friends that paddleboard beside me across lake sparkles. I traded waves crashing for frogs singing, but here and in Ireland, stars shine the same.

I’ve not seen the Atlantic for seventy-four days (and counting). The humbling rise and fall of grief waves comes close, but not quite. Whenever they flood my vision, imported love from Ireland keeps me from crashing too hard. As California love, stronger than 2Pac’s legacy, reinvigorates my soul.

Uncertainty and change are my companions as I let go, trust, then repeat daily. Love (in all its forms) is my constant. That said, I’ve no idea what the actual fuck I’m doing. And that’s okay. I refuse to put a bow on this, or any, chapter of my life.

I do know this to be true: some moments are worth crossing the sea for.

Sharing a spoon with him was one of them.