a lover from years ago who is still as familiar as home
27 October 2004
12:08 a.m.
Yesterday, I spoke with Dani for the first time in months. Her voice was the same, her words, her laughter.
We have been out of touch due to lost numbers and forgotten email addresses, but yesterday morning, at the lowest point I've ever been, I came across an old email from her, buried deep in an account I rarely use.
Dani.
Dani.
All day, her name in my mind became a mantra. Dani.
Dani.
And I composed email after email to her while I worked, walked to the train, went to the gym, walked home in the crisp October foilage.
Dani.
I planned to email her once I got home, but before I could, my phone rang, and there on the other side, familiar like home, was Dani.
A miracle. (Perhaps).
I melted into her, and had she been here, I would have wept in her lap.
I told her everything--we hadn't spoken since August. I told her about Emi. I told her about my father. I told her about how hard it is to get out of bed. I told her that I really don't think I'll make it through this.
And I told her about how I am not mourning my father's death; that it took a vampire-like nurse to make me aware of that.
Dani, it wasn't that I was crying because they were drawing blood. I'm not afraid of needles. I'm not afraid of most pain. But as the nurse, who was not very polite, anyway, began to prepare my arm to take my blood, all I kept thinking was: "My father just died. My father just died. Do you know that--that my father just died?" And that's why I wept, Dani, truly. I felt like a six year old. I think I was a six year old, then.
Dani listened intently. I could see her blue, blue eyes, in my mind studying me intensely, even from thousands of miles away.
Isn't it amazing, what our bodies do with pain?, she asked.
And that's exactly what I needed--not analysis or sympathy, but a blanket statement that weighed so much with understanding.
And from thousands of miles away, I could see Dani's frown, her slow blink, all conveyed to me by the weight of her sigh.
You know, she said, You've always had these low places, and this time you've had one hell of a trigger.
She didn't say that I'd pull through. She didn't suggest what I should do or how I should go about surviving.
Instead, with that one sentence, she reminded me of where I've been, and there's suddenly hope again.