I’ll probably always be one to love a little too much a little too soon. Someone whose feelings don’t subscribe to the time tables set for them.
And I’m not among those who knows she’ll have either peonies or ranunculus at her wedding. I’ve never pictured it. I have heard myself on many occasions saying to close friends, “I hope you get married in the next few years so I can plan your wedding,” demanding complete creative control, of course, despite my intense skepticism for the whole practice. Marriage or even a long-term romantic relationship is not a guarantee for me, or at least I don’t feel that it is.
I bet on my friendships most days, even though they allow for a certain level of unspoken commitment and platonic love and bring their own kind of sadness as they end. I plan for friendships as though they’re guaranteed, but romantic relationships seem to be in the Great Unknown category, something I’m content with most days.
And despite all of this, I still find myself planning an elaborate future, without any certainty of a future with that person at all.
I’m not a fiction writer, but I can’t help but imagine a lifetime with anyone who will let me, a romanticized vision of every possibility.
He and I were to ride bicycles across the Golden Gate Bridge. She and I would share a closet-sized apartment in the city. He and I would have a cafe con leche (his with a little too much sugar) every afternoon in our favorite plaza and he would tell me how he loves music but finds comfort in sharing silence with someone and she would ask to share a cigarette on a back porch when sleep wouldn’t come and she would always forgive me when I get bossy about playing music.
We all would have reconvened for New Year’s Eve or ditched our families to have Friendsgiving in November and he would have read books in the grass and I would take too many pictures of him and we would have opened a flower/letterpress stationary shop, she and I, with soft-colored walls and hand-painted flowers and hand-drawn letters on the windows and he would have traveled the world, but come back for me, or asked me to come along and kiss him on every bridge we would have walked across.
You would have realized you were way too young to get married and I would have learned to write sweet songs on ukulele to sing our kids to sleep or maybe just a sweet pupster that would have found a comfy spot each night at the foot of our bed and I would have written you a hundred more letters and left them on the kitchen counter for you to wake up to and nothing would have felt truer than Whitman’s words when he said: “We were together. I forget the rest.”
And today, I suppose I’m content to indulge in these lovely stories. But really, I hope to spend a lifetime being continually mesmerized and fascinated by how much more wonderful reality is than anything I could scribble into imaginary notebooks in my head.