In the snow

It is snowing in the quad today. And at least a dozen high schoolers are here on tours talking about scholarships, PhDs, and raising families. I was in a hurry, earlier, to get coffee and caramel; it has been a long day already, and the sky is gray. 

A girl on the stairwell, with a neat braid and lipstick, reminded me of you. Reminded me of the April you came to New York, with your luxury bags and sunken eyes. We chatted on Facebook for three days, reliving a past we didn't remember, and decided to meet up at the patio by Butler Library. And when we did meet, it felt like nothing had changed. We picked up the threads, where we had left, and laughed and hallucinated and drank Vermouth till wee hours of daybreak. 

We would walk to Alma's statue, sticking out like a toe nail at the steps of Low. And you would look at her crown and giggle and shout out loud 'She's worn it for ninety fucking years. She's possibly even seen Eisenhower. What a champ!'. And then we would walk to the statue of the Thinker and sit on the grass by Philosophy. You would laugh, suddenly. Saying that the blades tickled your thighs, and you could feel mist on your underwear. And we would chat about life, and catch up on stories, of careers, communions, and the blue-green of the Pacific. You would talk about Connecticut, being a city girl, and the heinous politics behind the Pulitzer. We would strap our arms around each other's and listen to the wind percussing on our ears. We knew we were gay. You with a lady, me with a man. Yet, enwrapped, we found solace and happiness --the way two strangers become friends. 

People say that there is no undoing when you become friends. But life is more complicated than that. There are entanglements. There are boundaries that you maintain, because friendships are fragile and have sensitive ends. You and I have toured together every corner of our home, with the glitter and aromas of New York City sprinkled along our eyes. We hesitated at parties, smirked at children, talked about literature by fireplaces in Brooklyn, where creativity and the cool are known to erupt. We talked about marriage, and raising kids, the looks of your sperm donor and his wardrobe. We went to the piers along the colors of the Hudson, and stared at athletes oiling there abs, wrapping bandanas around their dark blond hair, and playing with the tips of their light brown nipples. There were moments of solitary understanding. Even if we didn't say anything, we understood each other and what they call body's hidden languages. Finally, the time came, and we moved on with our lives, as you entered into your Chelsea home with the dying landlady, bubbling to her death with systemic metastasis. 

What I would think about, while laying on my bed, is our parents. You told them of a boy. Mine didn't talk. We lived in a shroud of lies. And no one barring you and me knew about her, the one you married after Amelia died on Passover. We talked about secrecy a long time back, by the Thinker, on a muggy September evening, and you said you were tired of lying to them about being with a Wall Street shmuck. But courage takes time. And there is no undoing. And when the time is ready, you will set yourself free. 

I go back to thinking about the girl on the stairwell. And why she reminds me so much of you. Maybe it is the eyes --dark, sunken, tired. Or maybe it is Alma. Who knows? The curiosity will slide, and I will be back to my business. But know that you are thought of. And loved.