The book I never wrote

February 12, 2012?

There is a moment, I believe, where a decision is made and things can never be the same again. A small action, perhaps insignificant but so incredulously impactful the reverbations can not be denied. It can be as simple as a softly spoken word, once emitted from soft, chapped lips never to be taken back or erased. Or a blink of a darkened eyelash, an eyelid closed for only a second so that a moment is lost. A second passed without recognition. The thing is, you may not ever know that the moment has happened until well after. Or perhaps you see the time fleeting away from you, and watch it sliver away.

I imagine this moment as the beginning, but I am truly unsure of where it all starts. I let myself believe that it was this moment, these moments that triggered everything that has ensued. But it is so hard to find the beginning of a string when the entire spooled is tangled.

The cotton of the blanket I am entwined in is worn and rugged with age. The fibres are fuzzy and slightly unraveled. I pull the corners closer around my body, snugly holding my grasp on the edges with my toes and fingers. I draw my body tighter into my self, and feel the softness of the blanket on my cheeks. My eyelids soften, heavy with burden of my seemingly swollen brain.

The grass, dull yet golden under the fading sky sways gently in the breeze. There is a slight chill in the air, signalling the near demise of torrid summer nights. Crickets chatter in between rocks and tufts of grass, creating a symphony with stream gurgling and rushing, and the leaves on the trees rustling. The moment seems very still, but lingering in it's passing.

I savour these moments, these little minutes where I am able to be still. Not only in mind but also body, and simply contemplate my surroundings. I think these are the times that allow my mind and spirit to recuperate, and simply- be.

A cloud of dust gathered across the field, and the sound of gravel crunching under hot rubber tires echoed off the trees lining the old country road. The old truck turned, and came up the pot-holed driveway. The brakes squealed as it came to a stop, and the bloom of air-borne dirt wafted in the setting sunlight.

The truck door slammed and as he came around the front of the truck his lips curved into a smile when he saw me, “hey beautiful.”

“Hey handsome.” My feet tingled as they touched the warm, weathered wood of the porch. I curled my toes on the edge of the step.

He walked along the path between the hydrangeas and roses and stood two stairs below me on his tip toes. His lips brushed against mind, “What's wrong?”

“”Nothing just thinking too much, you know me.” I wrapped the sweater closer around my body.

“You have to stop worrying so much, everything will be fine. Im here for you, you know that.” I cringed slightly at his words. He pulled me into him, wrapping his arms around me. I could feel the warmth, and hardness of his body against mine. The delightful smell of him, and his aftershave -a delicious elixir. I exhaled deeply, and feel into his arms. “That's a girl. Come on, let's go inside and eat.”

I led him by his left hand through the old screen door on the front porch, and into our home. My hand left his in the kitchen, and slid into a pair oven mitts. As I opened the oven door, steam smacked me in the face. I placed the pot on a trivet on the old antique table I had found at a local flea market just after we bought the house.

It wasn't in very good shape. But then again neither was the house. Thom had wanted to buy a new house in a square subdivision with air conditioning and pre-installed lawn sprinklers that went off at exactly 7:30 in the morning and at night. I wouldn't have it. Those places have no soul, they're empty. I don't want to live in a painted box. He had laughed at me, and smiled: But if I put you in a box then you can never leave me. So we searched for the perfect house. And this was it. And old farmhouse, victorian style.

It was once on the outskirts of town, surrounded by fields and fields of wheat and horses. Now there were train tracks at the end of the road, and the vibrations from the trains passing shook the mirror in my boudoir at night and woke me. The old part of town was twenty minutes away driving, and the new mall and shopping center -five.

I fixed up the house. Hours of work scraping the old lead paint off of the boards on the outside, days peeling off faded wallpaper inside. I didn't work a typical job, but took time from my painting to do the majority of the renovations while Thom was at work. I turned the sunroom into a painting studio, filled it with an assortment of house plants and shelves and shelves of books I collected during school.

I had always dreamed of renovating my dream home. And I had got my wish. I had had everything. Rachel and I would spend hours searching in old antique stores looking for the perfect pieces. Like the vintage clawfoot tub in the master bath, and the kitchen table.

My fingers skimmed across the old wood. Worn yet sturdy. There were depressions where the previous owners had placed pots and bowls continuously: wearing down the fibres and exposing the grain of the wood. I slid into a chair at the table and watched as he doled himself a heaping of potatoes. My elbows rested on the table as I watched him.

His eyes were seemingly crystal clear, the pigment not distracting as you got lost in them. I always felt like looking into his eyes were like staring into his soul, like a blind person feel the hollows and mounds of the surface of a cave, feeling and knowing at the same time. Everything was always there, waiting for me -out in the open. All I ever had to do was to reach out my knotted line-etched fingers and grasp at him.

My hand sidled across the wood again and reach his wrist. I let my pinky creep along up on to it, feeling the fine hairs that canvassed the surface of his befreckled skin. His eyes darted from his heaping plate to me, and I shrunk a little back into my chair.

“I love you,” the words seemed to move in slow motion from his lips, and I smiled at him as I felt a bubble choking up to my throat. I pressed my hand on top of his, pressing my lips together. His knowing eyes returned to his plate. My heart sank as I could see the disappointment welling up in him.

The choking feeling returned stronger than ever, “Excuse me” the chair scraped against the old floorboards I had had restored from underneath the tile floor someone had stupidly used to cover over the beautiful original flooring. I could feel his eyes on me as I walked over to the bathroom on the main floor, and latched the old knob after I closed the door. Everything was framed perfectly in the mirror, warm white walls with images from old botanical books framed in mirrors I scrounged for at flea markets and thirft stores. Everything I had worked so hard to accomplish, I had what I wanted. Most of it anyway.