It was a cold, clear day like today, the last time Michael and I sat drinking coffee outside at a small café table. Braving the frigid air because we wanted to smoke and somehow the discomfort when all we wanted was warmth seemed fitting.
He knew, of course, that I was in love with him. And I knew that he knew. We’d just been waiting for the day I would say it out loud so that we could get past it, which meant saying goodbye. He couldn’t love me, and I couldn’t bear the knowledge.
We moved on to talking about other things. Our last conversation with much nervous sipping of coffee gone cold. Chain smoking as if the smoke would keep us warm. Hands in gloves, kept away from an accidental touch.
After an awkward silence he told me about the most recent letter he’d gotten from his almost ex wife. She was back in Russia with their son, now five and a half years old, and she said the herbs growing on the kitchen windowsill were doing quite well despite short days of sunlight and life on the tundra.
It amazes me, how life persists and even thrives despite limitations and loss. Trying to grow like potted plants in a window where the glass always separates us from the wild we truly want.