Water Surrounded By Ice
Place right now is with my husband at W. Eastwood. He is in his wool green sweater with its brown arms. I think there might be a whole in the armpit. It fits him like a cropped sweater. I love this sweater. It is his favorite one. His leather wallet is in his back pocket of his jeans and the chain hangs loose outside as if he was a motorcycle rider and not a bike rider- sort of cool. He is cool. His glasses are black rimmed Rayban and he cleans them daily so they are clear to see his blue eyes. Sometimes they are grey and I see the sadness come down like a shade. I don’t remember any sadness before the storm. We knew each other so well then, before I went missing. He could look at me while we were sitting on Couch and know my emotion or thought like he was passed a piece of paper in homeroom before I entered the room. Lately he assumes what I am thinking and it’s as if the person who wrote on that note got it wrong. I’m usually thinking something different, something kind, and I want to take his hand and talk about the future I am hoping we can have.
My husband is a handsome man. He trims his long grey beard himself and I am always impressed because even after watching many YouTube videos since the pandemic I still can not cut my bangs in a straight line. I love his braids and sometimes he asks me to braid one long braid for him down his back and I feel the sort of lucky one feels when they touch someone who is famous. When he tells you a story and makes up a name (for example, Leonard Carboni, a name he uses often)he talks about them as if he actually knows them well and they really exist. He is sensitive and can cry. When he does, the new lines around his eyes fill with water, like a river or stream. I think this is beautiful and I feel less alone, as if we were sitting on the floor holding hands and sharing our feelings. He is funny and has a crazy imagination (I wish right now I could remember something he said. He just said something last night over dinner) so I often think he should be the writer instead of me. I wonder if he were to be writing this and writing about us what he would write and what similis he would use.
When he walks from the dining room into the front room, only a foot away, it sometimes feels like you are crossing the sea or stepping off of a boat and onto land. This is the feeling we have often, but, when he hugs me from whatever place he has come from or whatever emotion we are both in, his hug feels like a familiar oversized sweater and I know that’s the only place I want to be.
When we first met he was living on his boat, Polynya. He bought her for $3000 from two brothers. A polynya is an area of open water surrounded by ice. He didn’t know a lot about boats or sailing, he taught himself. My husband is self taught and self made and I am proud of him for that.
He can’t stand up straight in the boat without hitting his head. It is small and private like the back corner in a fancy restaurant. He had invited me into his world and sometimes he is still struggling to get into mine. “I walk around our apartment and see nothing of mine. You had me take down all my pictures.” This is true. Though I feel him everywhere I go. I see him on “my” bed which is “ours.” I see him on “my” couch because we have had discussions and fights and said I love you so many times as I stretched my legs out over his or laid my head in his lap or held his face as I scratched at his beard. He filled the sunroom up with plants, the room dedicated to him, and it is our favorite room. It’s where we have our dinners and if I don’t feel like going out it’s where I write.
The first time I went to the boat I felt I was shown something others didn’t get to see. He reached out his hand to help me down the stairs of the companion way. He is always reaching out his hand even when we have had a difficult day. I don’t want to let it go.
I would often go to the boat after work when we first met. I only worked blocks away. It was winter time then and the boat was kept in River City. I would enter the code to get in the gate and the gate was heavy and he could hear it when it closed. He would come up above as he heard me approach. Christmas lights outlined the boat so I always knew which one was his. I would walk along the wooden deck watching the American Coots swimming between the boats. It was quiet and dark, sounds echoed. He would stand in the companion way in his Uncle Mike’s off white green and navy blue striped wool flannel jacket, a cigarette in his hand, a beer, and smile. When I think of my husband I picture this. This is the picture I want hanging on our wall.
He would be smiling as one does when they have been waiting for something forever and finally get it. Whenever my husband smiles a happy smile he shows all of his teeth including the one that is now chipped on its enamel on the top right, but that is my favorite tooth.
He would have a diet Coke or a glass of wine waiting for me when I got to the boat and kiss me. When he went to the store he would have mandarine oranges hanging from above or a container of cut watermelon next to the water faucet. Whenever I reached the boat and walked down inside I felt I was in a special place only he and I could live. We cooked spaghetti in the small kitchen and ate on opposite sides with our drinks on the floor. Our drinks would slide as the boat bobbed on the water. I would lay back between his legs on the seat as we watched movies on the computer near the space heater or lay my head back on his chest as we sat content in silence.
After a while, after we had said I love you, after I knew I never wanted him to leave, I wanted to tattoo his name on me.“No,” he said. Instead, I tattooed a picture of Polynya on the inside of my right upper arm in an oval frame. When he saw it he said it was beautiful, “It looks just like her.” It would be harder to cover up than just his name.
I asked him in family session if he would rather be living alone on his boat. “Sometimes. Then after a bit I wouldn’t.” When I picture this boat it is made of wood with a cloth sail and sitting on a mantel, something not as real. Sometimes I want to be living at 5547 N. Lakewood with all my stuff, with rooms filled with me. I want to be sitting on Couch cross legged with a diet Coke on the table writing a fictional story instead of this.
Since the storm he has felt very alone. Since the storm we have been trying to find our way back together. We pull at a door that has swelled in the heat and is stuck.
He didn’t want me writing about him but so much of finding me is finding us.
I told him when we first met about my bipolar and he kissed me on the lips. I told him over one year ago I was depressed again and we sat on Couch together while he held my hand. Then I go missing and leave him alone in our apartment filled with my stuff while he sits on Couch and reads on the computer how I don’t feel at home.
He asked me the other day if he thinks we should move. I don’t want to move and have to pack up all our stuff. Besides, this would come with us too. But when I’m no longer lost I’m hoping he is here when I come home.
