Blackberry Winter
My cursor blinks on a passage from 37:
Green is the color of poison.
That’s what I think to myself as my chartreuse-filled irises stare back at me through my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Green is the color of poison.
I feel like poison sometimes. Damaged. Toxic. A mess.
I close my eyes.
--
The ambiance of Marcel’s is cool and glamorous. A steakhouse disguised as a golden speakeasy. The brass light fixtures seem to vibrate amidst the darkness of the dimly lit room, their amber light filtering through the haze of smoke that is perceived but not present.
Large goblet wine glasses sparkle and splash with the crimson hue of full-bodied reds. Carefully placed artworks and heavy velvet drapes nod to a time long gone. A time when luxury and glamour went hand in hand.
A time I do not represent in my denim button-down, Chucks, and black “Dawgs” ball cap.
Still, here I am with my best friends, sipping from a crystal lowball holding gin, tonic, lime, and a slice of cucumber. The freshness competing against the botanicals and acidity in a way that is most refreshing.
M & A are talking next to me at the bar. We’re here to burn a gift card.
I sit for a moment taking in the atmosphere, thinking about how lucky I am to be here. Not here in the restaurant, though that piece is true, of course—here with these lovely people. Indeed, maybe here at all after the temptation of the drawer days.
I grin as I glance over at them. They take me with them everywhere. I’m sure that’s taxing sometimes, though they’d never tell me that. They’d be upset with me for even thinking they feel that way. They don’t think of me as a third wheel—I am just their Trey.
“I miss being in love.”
M swivels her lovely head away from A. “What?” she asks.
“I miss being in love,” I say. “I miss what it feels like—this—this being by yourself piece is hard. This unconnectedness. This, alone.”
“I know you do,” she says as she pats my shoulder.
“You know I was alone for at least two more years before I met M. How old are you? 34?” A asks.
“The number you’re searching for is 37, baby.” I grin.
“Right, 37,” he continues. “I didn’t meet M for at least 2 more years. Till I was 40.”
(Now obviously base-10 math means that’s 3 more years, but he’s an engineer, and who am I to argue.)
“Oh, well, I didn’t mean I needed to meet someone,” I say. “I was just sort of acknowledging that I miss that feeling. Feeling love. I was in love alone anyway—”
“You’d certainly been feeling it by yourself for a while,” M says, raising her eyebrows in agreement.
“M didn’t want anything to do with me when we first met,” A interjects. “I am so grateful to her first husband. I am thankful that he messed it all up. He saved her for me—that’s out there for you too.”
“I dunno.” I shake my head. “There’s this study that says if a gay man isn’t in a relationship by the time he’s 45, then he’s gonna be alone.”
“Oh God, that’s not true.” M smacks my shoulder with the back of her hand. “Where the hell did you read that BS?”
“I dunno, somewhere,” I answer.
“Well that’s bullshit,” she says and sips her Sancerre.
“So Trey, tell me about this new boy,” A asks me.
“Well—he’s nice,” I say.
--
A cold gust from the open balcony brings me back.
Green is the color of poison.
I remember the night I wrote that. The night I stared into those eyes—
eyes nearly drained of their dried-pasture-grass-waving-in-the-hot-July-breeze hue
from tears, upon tears.
I was just remembering that night at the mirror, the eyes I stared into. Whose they were.
My eyes.
That are green like Daddy’s.
That light up at the sight of their nephews.
Eyes that feel—maybe to a fault sometimes.
Eyes that cry.
Eyes that are so much stronger than I knew in that moment.
“Eyes that are frozen in the cold of this fucking blackberry winter,” I think as I shut the door. “Jesus.”
Blackberry winters—I hate how they come like this.
Spring is upon us, the buds are growing. The trees have just begun to stretch forth their green—and ZAP.
Cold snap.
Yet they are inevitable, it seems.
When Momma worked at the bank she said there was this old head of a man who would come in almost every early spring.
“Aren’t you glad it’s getting warm again?!” she’d ask him.
He’d reply, “Aw well, we’ll probably have another cold snap before it’s all done.”
“And he was usually always right,” she’d tell us.
He’s certainly right this year.
Sometimes I feel like these blackberry winters. Like just when life is starting to turn and get green again, here I come to fuck it up with my overthinking or anxiety or worrying about where I am or where I’m not.
Zapping the fresh dogwood buds of my own life. Chilling the azaleas roots.
But you know?
That’s the thing about blackberry winters—
They can come and they can linger.
But no matter how long they delay her, spring comes.
She still comes right on in, anyway.
Green—
Green is also the color of spring.