There are no endings, there are only feelings, only openings, maybe you can see our vulnerability through them, our foolishness, our grandiosity, our lovability, and maybe there are things to see in each other before we part ways again.
I’m not sure if I’m writing for you, for me, for ourselves, or for our future collectivity. We are always part of each other, and always awkwardly, always with a struggle. All life is motion, is stillness. All life is collision, and then the aftermath.
Our lives are always a struggle for something, a continuation of what feminist weddings are supposed to be about. A struggle to figure out what is worth struggling for. Gender too is a struggle, a space where we can be held, where we can be seen, where we can bargain with each other. A place where we bargain with ourselves.
Faye is sick again today. I want to hold her, but all day she just wanted to play. Holding isn’t always enough. I hope she’s better in the morning. Before she sleeps, she wants me to sing to her. Then the ritual hug, the ritual kiss. Then I leave and shut the door behind me. But I won’t go far away, just in case I’m needed.