Things That I Remember

On New York in November, as I write this in December. May you remember to accept presence as a present, especially with the people you love, and are always learning to love better. xo

I remember a cold day in New York. We took the subway from 72nd and Broadway, sharing headphones as we walked into Central Park. It might’ve been sunny despite the month, I wore only a jean jacket. I do remember feeling warm as we kept our steps close and our bodies turned inward.

The wet ground soaked into my suede boots because the soles were cracking and I hadn’t cared until now but I was too focused on explaining to you what I loved about this song. And I knew you were listening because of how soft your blue eyes were. You touched my elbow lightly as we crossed 5th Avenue, and I felt protected, like a child again. But not in a way that made me want to pull away.

I remember the man who sold us the tickets, the sound of the machine printing them out, and the feel of sharp-edged paper in my hands as we climbed the spiral of the Guggenheim—pausing at the top for a triumphant picture. Heads bowed together, we were touching even as we walked to different parts of the winding space. It was like a thread had regrown, resewn itself into the marrow even as distance and time had not halted. It would always be like this, wouldn’t it?

My boots made a scuff-and-click noise as we ascended, and read the plaques on the white, godly walls. The artist always wanted her work to be displayed in a temple. We floated past orange strokes, through deep purple clouds, I remember you paused in front of one that was hard to tell which way was up. I remember wondering who could hang a Hilma Af Klint in their home and not feel like they might be doing it wrong.

Seeking fresh air and fewer people, we returned to our walk, zigzagging the park. Did I show you the benches? Or was it the gazebo? I remember I wanted to watch the toy boats cutting through that glassy, gritty water. I don’t remember how long we stayed. Now I’ll always wish we stayed longer. Breathing that cold, living air.

It took us over an hour to cross Central Park, down the spine of New York City. We stopped for the briny, overpriced oysters at the Plaza (the heart,) and then made our way into the belly of Union Square. I remember the swell and beat of the people. I remember the feeling of your hand in mine. I remember the walk didn’t feel like an hour because we talked the whole time, and I thought, this is the rest of what life will feel like, because you’re here, in this place, that I’ve made a life, and I’m showing it to you, and you seem happy for me.

And you just seem happy.

At the Strand, I watched the way you trailed the length of the backbones of books with your long fingers — you only bought a postcard that you would write in the morning with your loping, curving script. You always thought of things like that. And I bought Raymond Carver’s What We Talk About When We Talk About Love because I already loved a line from it:

I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone's heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark.

We ate dinner on 4th Avenue, and I remember how easily you smiled at me from across a table. I remember the way our lemon drop martinis caught the light from the candle, and how we laughed loudly while holding the stalk of a drink rimmed in sugar. Brash joy marked against expensive martini elegance; a lucky pairing. It was realizing we could be friends. I wish it hadn’t taken so long.

Maybe we saw a movie. I don’t remember really. I do remember the air piercing my lungs once we re-emerged into the world, and linking arms as we made our way into the subway. Up through the spine by clicking train, I remember you folded your hands around the green bag in your lap — perhaps you closed your eyes, but not for long because soon you caught me watching you.

We couldn’t return to my apartment, because the nuns don’t allow visitors (that’s for another story.) So we shared a couch in a fifth-story walk-up at 110th and Central Park West. Head to foot, and your feet at my head, we dozed and drifted, debriefing Klint’s pieces, lulling over oysters, and those lovely lemon drop martinis. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I know that it came gently.

Had I known this was our perfect day, I would’ve stayed awake in that silence in the darkness, simply taking in the human noises of your breathing or the way you felt beside me. I did not know that becoming friends could mean so much when I had loved you all my life. That love usually came with fighting to grow up. To walk beside you on that day, to share so much, and simply be — it will always be among the things that I remember.

But a perfect day is only perfect because soon it will be dark, and someone will be gone. That you could sit and not speak, stay close, and hope that somehow that will preserve that perfect day, is just that — a hope. It is a far more human thing to forget where you are, and who you are with.

Please don’t let the water seeping into your suede boots mark the occasion. Try and savor the feel of the day and the way it is shared. Enough advice, but - oh - how I hope, to whoever reads this piece until the end, that you get many perfect days with the person(s) that you love.

The view from the top of the Guggenheim.