Patterns From a Moving Quilt
copyright © 1998 Louise de Leon
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August 3

I packed my bags two weeks ago. It feels as though I’m not carrying as many things as I am memories from this place. It doesn’t feel heavy enough to remind me how much of my life I’m leaving. All I feel beneath the cotton and nylon fibres is the soft cushion of tightly packed clothes. The other things in the apartment aren’t that important, except maybe for the pack of diskettes near the computer. I still have to tuck them into my bag, before I say goodbye.

You are still asleep as I take my livelihood from the desk, the stories I have yet to sell. The others lie scattered upon the shelves, in magazines and anthologies of sometimes-ill repute. I leave my bags near the door. I still want to see you before I leave.

I slowly creep back to the bedroom where you lie sleeping. The light of morning spills in through the curtains, which have been pushed aside by the wind slipping past the window. The light will wake you in a few minutes, so I sit by the edge of the bed, where your face is hiding from the light, and wait for you.

I take this time to remember you. And the sight of your hair fills my vision, which is curly from the restless sleep you so often have. I can’t see any more of you, because you have wrapped the blankets around you, a cocoon to keep you warm and comfortable while you sleep. To think that we had talked about this so often, with your trusting eyes, even after everything. And I find myself still loving you.  Maybe it’s because when people like you walk into my life, I know I am forever changed.

The alarm clock reminds me of how little time that I have left. You stir, but hide your face in the sheets, all crumpled and smelling of the both of us. I don’t want to wake you up. But I can’t wait for you to wake up by yourself. I have to go, and that just hurts all the more.

I stand up from the bed slowly; hoping you won’t notice and start yourself awake. I will my shoes to be quiet and move slowly to the front door. I take my keys from my pocket, thinking I will leave them with you. But I change my mind. I hope you forgive me for this one indulgence.

I’m at the doorway when you finally see me. Bags are laden across my shoulders, and my soul’s doing a feat of willpower by not breaking into a stream of tears.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” You envelop me in the embrace I’ve come to remember as my home.

“And you.” I let go, knowing your mind, knowing that it has to be me who has to leave. It would be too much for me to ask you to do this; too much the easy way out.

August 29

I stay in a studio for once, on the other side of the city. It seems inappropriate to live in a house, having too much room to clean and not enough drive to do it. A house just reminds me how empty I feel. At least, here, I fill my room and find it full. Not like my soul.

I console my need for the stars and sunlight by getting place by the bay, with a view of both the sun’s rise and its descent. It seems fitting somehow, to stay in one place and watch the world move around me while I stay perfectly still.

It is so easy to slip back into the solitude I had developed into a habit before we met. Nobody knows where I am, and I let myself believe nobody cares. I told as few people as possible we were together. It is ironic that I have told even less that we had sundered ourselves apart.

Reading and writing are what fill my days. It is mostly reading, actually. I have always been a voracious reader, but now, it is as if gluttony is driving my brain and my eyes to swallow page after endless page. It doesn’t matter what I am reading, just that I read. My laptop is where I spend my time, surfing through the web to find another story, another voice to listen to, anything.

But all I can think about is you.

October 3

I think I want myself to be found. But it must be by those willing to look hard enough.

October 12

It is late into the night and the heat of the day has become a memory. I stare out into the stars, trying to find the one that calls to me. A friend once told me that all I had to do was choose a star, and let my voice carry the hurt to it. It is not the first time I look to the stars for solace, but her words entice me to speak, my pain. No one hears me. I wonder if anyone will.

January 20

I finally consent to leave the sanctuary of the apartment. Birthdays of your friends do that to me. Promises made and and I intend to keep is what brings me here.

I watch you from the periphery of my vision. I hold a glass of juice, the only thing I am letting myself have tonight. Alcohol flows freely, and the laughter of friends--yours or mine, does it really matter?--keep me from fading into memories completely. I do not want to fight the muddling of my vision with tequilla. I can only do so much and still stand.

Alain pushes his face into my field of vision. "Aren't you drinking tonight?"

I look at my glass, which is empty. "I've had my fill. Don't worry about me." A glint of teeth, in a half promise of a smile, is all I give to him. Which he accepts, in his inebriated state, and leaves me be.

It is an irony to be standing in a room full of people and feel so alone. This is the same place we first met. And we are back to where we first started. I raise my empty glass to the appropriateness of silence.
 
 


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