My mother’s favourite cake, orange and almond. The first time I made it was in my parents’ kitchen, and I wrote about boiling the oranges because I was very sad. My boyfriend had moved to England, and I was young and it felt very big and like the end, not just of us but of everything. It’s at least five years later now and my mother is here visiting me before she moves to Scotland, and the cake is made again, and in just over one week she will be gone.
Today is Robbie’s birthday, and in a couple of days it will be one whole year since we went on our first date. We have been through some stuff since then - waiting on the cancer all-clear, my parents’ divorce, my med-affected moods, the death of his friend. But it has nearly always been happy. He has always, always been good and patient.
On the date we drank a lot, I think because we were both very nervous and not actually sure if it was a date or not. Then we met up with some friends. One of their housemates said, “How long have they been together? They’re such a cute couple.” I took this as a good omen. We saw each other like five times in the next week, including when I sat at the after-hours vet with him, and when I invited him over in a moth-induced panic.
Last night we were talking about all of this. He said, “Moths were my wingmen.” Then: “Because they have wings.” And then he laughed a lot.
"One bird singing back to another because it can’t not."
— Jane Hirshfield, from “All Day The Difficult Waiting”, in Come, Thief (via clarev)
Asking Robbie if he wants to go out for dinner for his birthday next week, or if he would rather do something with his friends, or family. “You are my friends or family.”
In my dream last night Robbie and I hadn’t met yet, and something felt wrong the whole time.
At work listening to blues songs and not doing work. I’m rewarding myself for every little thing I get done today (“open that document” “make that phone call”) by looking up cute diy projects, new recipes, different ways to grow plants. We’re all on a super tight budget in the house at the moment, so we’ve been brainstorming ways to save money. We’re planning spring backyard picnics, bike rides, planting days. We’ll be moving in January, which means thinking ahead to what we can harvest before then, or take with us. Making lists - strawberries, beetroot, peas, cucumber, capsicum/peppers, basil, thyme.
List of all the rivers, mountains, roads until I find you
Noosa. Brisbane. Mekong Delta. Caboolture. The Thames. Molonglo. Derwent. Cotter.
I have crossed them all. All the rivers I can swim.
Tibrogargan. Tennent. Ainslie. Tambourine.
The day I climbed a mountain without meaning to, and you came to find me. My body hurt for days and you carried me.
It took me so long to learn how to drive.
The Weather Reported
I’m glad the cabin is finished in Cañones.
Did Elud finish the rock wall?
The bedroom facing south?
I was less of a person then, I know.
I was less of a bird then, too.
Do the two streams still run?
The roadrunner? The crane?
Remember the night on the porch: Chinaco and chilies
by the Rio Grande, the cloud that passed over us
in the shape of your face?
We both saw it. You were the weather.
I was moving to you, to the river, but
I was not a morning dove, or a marsh hawk.
I’m sorry that I could not stay. Your name was too big for me,
twice my age—you were still running faster than water.
I moved to the farthest tip of the East,
you sent me binoculars for my bird-watching.
and a bunch of Mexican sage from the bosque.
Santiago, I am my own weather now.
Santiago, I am my own river.
Santiago, I am a better bird for flying.