Waif on the Wind
“The best lives are lived when you forgo your designated lap swimming to drink wine with friends.”
A lesser-known triathlete said that once.
I know because, I said “triathlete.”
And I am lesser known.
The pool was closed for cleaning tonight,
so M and I gave up on exercise,
bought bubbles and Sauvi B,
and had dinner with Kel and Mikey, and our baby boy.
That was fabulous, but it was the drive home where the nonsense occurred.
We were leaving the burbs of Atlanta—
can I just say?
(of course I can, it’s my blog—
Whose permission do I need?
Whose permission do any of us really need?)
400 is a long and arduous journey when you live in town.
This isn’t to take away from the daily commuter.
Frankly, I don’t know how you do it, baby.
Sit in that damn traffic every day,
To and fro.
You are the unsung hero of the mecca of southern economy.
You keep us floatin’,
and are due proper respect.
Anyway— 400 is an arduous journey when you leave ITP for OTP.
A trek in and out.
I feel a bit like Frodo on a lite trek to Mt. Doom.
It’s worth it,
but costly.
M and I were talkin’ about life and love.
(That’s really all there is in the end, you know?)
“I just don’t feel like I’m the same anymore,” I said.
“What do you mean?” M asked, drivin’ down State Route 400.
“Well,” I paused, “I guess I used to think I was going to have this great love. This great and profound feeling of all things.
You know?
Like the world was bigger, and the sea was deeper.
And the stars and the Earth moved like Hemingway.
Like the coffee smelled better—even Folgers.
Like how it feels to see the Sydney Opera House—
or walk through Notting Hill after leavin’ the pub some spring evening that’s warmer than it should be allowed to be over there.
Or how marinara tastes when it’s homemade,
especially with basil from your own herb garden.
Or my Gran laughed with me. Exasperated. Tears even.
Or how it felt the first time I kissed the boy—even though he was late.
I felt like it would be more than the sum of it all—
whatever that even means.”
Hm, she murmured.
There was quiet for a moment as we passed the midtown skyline.
Lights passing above and beside us.
“I’ve always been very different in my thoughts about love,” M said.
“I know,” I said. “I dunno—sometimes I feel like something’s wrong now,
on the other side of it all.
Maybe I’m just a waif on the wind—”
“Is that right?” I asked. “Waif?”
“Isn’t that like a really thin person? A waif?” M said.
“Oh good. Like what we aspire to be!” I say and we both laugh. “Hell, I dunno. Let’s look.”
I typed what is the definition of “waif” into AI.
I read aloud:
A waif is a noun that generally means a homeless person (especially a neglected or orphaned child), a stray animal, or an extremely thin person or young woman. It can also refer to a lost or unclaimed piece of property.
“Well, hell,” I laugh. “I don’t think that’s what I meant.”
“I don’t think so either,” M laughs.
I get out of the car in my building’s drive and act like there’s wind,
“Oh, the wind it’s blowing me away, I’m such a waif!”
We laugh.
“Night, sugar.” I say and peck a kiss on the cheek.
“Night,” M smiles.