Another dream of Steve

 Steve, last night I dreamt we were at a work conference. You stood near me, and at some point put your arm around me, and it was nice. You made me feel secure. It was friendly, not more, but I felt so secure next to you, so sure. 

We didn't mind anyone seeing us together. 

You were younger, like when I met you, the first years--not how you looked after your bad year, your rough times. You were healthy. 

We were sorting out where to spend the night and it was clear we'd spend it together, and that felt ok. Very ok. Natural. Not a sexual excitement, but secure and sure. 

Was this kicked off by your son's Father's Day post, seeing photos of you? Maybe. Or by yesterday's reveal by my partner (or, "partner"?) which got me thinking about security and reality and love? Maybe. I should have reached out, asked more questions, spent more time. Honestly, you shouldn't have fucking died before we could talk more. I might be kind of mad about that, at both of us. 

Is it weird that I miss you? The imagined can be better than the real, I guess. 

For Steve

Last night, I saw the news that Steve had died. It came as a shock, crushing news at an already somewhat fragile time for me. I had just wished him happy birthday the previous day. He hadn’t responded, but that wasn’t unusual, though he also hadn’t responded to my Christmas message which I did find a little strange. We could go for long periods of time out of touch before reconnecting and sending long missives back and forth for a couple of days before drifting apart again.

He was a gruff old farmer, a punk rock musician, an amazing single dad, a fierce advocate of farmland and small business and integrity, a tractor fixer-upper. He was a friend.

I first met him when I was a member of his CSA, when my now-huge firstborn child was a squishy little newborn who nearly fell out of the sling I wore him in, into a bin of zucchini when I was picking up my weekly farm share. Steve was gruff and funny and kind and he pulled no punches. He was fair, and he was ornery as fuck about topics he was passionate about.

We got closer in the aftermath of what I will refer to as his Very Bad Year, when he shared with me the heartache and truth behind the headlines. I believed in him, and I advocated for him, though it was hard for him to regain his market footing after that.

We last spoke in October; we had some good conversations last fall, and I felt as close as ever to him and kept meaning to go see his new place in western Massachusetts, though we weren’t the type to visit each other. The last time I saw him, he was coming through town on a scrap pickup mission, and we sat on my front steps talking, and laughing--when he got back into his truck, I was nearly doubled over at one of his typical hilariously crude jokes (about religion and sex, if you must know). Honestly, we had a longtime joking flirtation thing going on, a light running joke that we’d probably end up together in the end, when we were old and scraggy and no one else could tolerate us (and do NOT come at me about how this was unfair to any of my past lovers/boyfriends/partners--this was always in the realm of somewhere between a joke and a dream, not a plan and not reality, just our running joke).

He'd asked me more than once to help him write and edit his memoirs, and we'd talk about it, and he'd tell me some gems from his very colorful life, and we'd veer off onto the details of whatever situation he'd just told me about, and we never did make a plan to get that all down on paper.

There's been too much loss recently, and this one really hurts, because unlike heartbreak it can’t be talked through, most of the gravel picked out of the wound until it can heal into some level of closure and loving friendship. This is fucking unexpected and permanent with too much left unsaid that will have to forever remain unsaid--certainly not unrequited love, not at all, but a longtime mutual something, I don’t know what.

Rest in peace, Steve. I wasn’t done talking with you and I can’t believe you’re gone.

3 a.m. Truths

It’s the middle of the night

well before first light

All your filters are gone

You want to tell me what's wrong

You say we don’t make sense,

we’re better off as friends

you say you don't want to break up

but I just take up

too much of your time

i need too much attention

you're not over your wife

and did I happen to mention

You don’t like Massachusetts

and we live too far apart

And you hate my schedule changes

I think you don't have a heart

Maybe you’re right

but it’s the middle of the night

Can we please just sleep, babe?

I don’t want to fight.

All the filters come off

and you’re speaking the truth

I just wanted to wake up

and cuddle with you

I never know where I stand

not sure where we’re gonna land

you tell me what’s on your mind

but soon you will find

I can’t take much more

of your moods and rages

and my own insecurities

are staining our pages

It's the middle of the night

but I think you’re right

that we don’t make sense

and we’re better off as friends

I don’t want to walk away

I don’t know what to say

Honey, I know you’re right

I won't let this go without a fight

It's the middle of the night

and maybe you're right

3 a.m. and the truth

just comes pouring right out of you...

2/13/25

Ice Walk

 The big cat and I stare into each other's eyes, matching pain. His pupils are huge; mine are probably normal-sized, but that doesn't mean I'm not hurting. 

He's just in physical pain: bladder, urethra. Male-cat stuff. Me, ulcer stuff. But I also feel bruised all over, a virtual black eye, figurative lip split and metaphorical bruised cheek. That was Monday. After last night, I feel shredded as well. 

Tired, bruised, shredded, and I can't even fucking drink coffee or go for a run, because my stomach is so inflamed. 

-----

I don't exactly know how I got here, why I'm still here. I keep resetting the goalposts, moving my own boundaries. It's insidious; that's the problem. And every incident slips me further into the crevasse, just small slips, the occasional bigger drop, but certainly nothing dramatic. Little tinkling of ice shards showering down but I'm still holding, right? 

When I look back, I can't explain it. I can't see the turning point. I know his mental state is so much worse than I had realized, and it gets darker and darker. He revels in it. His self-pity can be outsized. His inability to look beyond this very moment is frustrating. His escalating tornadoes of pure darkness are bigger and bigger; they make me cry now, even if all the debris isn't raining down on me personally. I don't even want to be near it. I don't want to see it, or hear it, or stare it as it grows and grows, spiraling out of control. 

I used to be able to help redirect him. To help him shift out of the dark places and grab the rope to get back into the light. He would remind himself of various recovery aphorisms; he clung to them like a life buoy at times, no matter how fatuous they could sound, and he'd quickly pull himself back onto solid ground. 

But now he keeps walking out across the ice, slipping down into the gaps and then complaining he's freezing and stuck and doing nothing to save himself, just shaking his fist and yelling, "See? See?!?" as if it's anyone's fault but his that he's there in the first place. 

-----

I give the big cat his pills; he's feeling well enough this morning to resist, which is promising. It takes me three tries to get the second pill into him. As for me, I've done all the things I'm supposed to, mostly, before drinking coffee: Prilosec, a banana, some time. I grimace at the pain, but I'm hoping the GI doc will have some better answers for me later instead of just "Don't drink coffee; don't run."

Avoiding these things that used to make me feel good but are apparently bad for me is not something one complains about to an addict in recovery, sliding on the edge of relapse, though that person understands better than anything how much it fucking sucks to have to avoid things that temporarily make you feel good even when they're bad for you. Life isn't even worth living, he's said. I'm just in pain all the time without them. 

I believe him. I have no advice except to kick in your crampons, fall on your ice ax if you need to—use your tools, use your skills. You don't need to slide off the edge. And I can't stay roped up to you if you keep endangering us both. 

1-29-25

MGH (a poem)

The last time I was at MGH

my child had broken his neck

but no one at the first hospital suspected it—

they were distracted by

a more obvious and dramatic issue

and thankfully transferred him.

He recovered. 

We all did, mostly, in our own ways

and resumed life more cautiously. 

Tomorrow I go get tested

for something my own doctor missed 

or didn't consider, distracted by

(tell me if this sounds familiar)

the dramatic,

not seeing the real danger lurking

Only by luck and pain and nearly losing

my furious beloved, raging about blood draws

(but I was willing! if this is when I lose him, so be it!)

did we learn of

our own cracked vertebrae

So off I go, offering myself to their expertise again. 

And we'll recover. 

We both will, in our own ways

and resume life more cautiously.

1-30-25

You Are

December 13, 2024

You are 

You are a bottle of champagne

lightly shaken, pop topped

bubbling over everywhere

sticky, sneakily intoxicating

You are sourdough starter

pulled from the fridge, fed a spoonful of flour

Spilling over the top of the jar

creating creating creating 

unstoppable

You are the sunrise every single day 

often bright and beautiful 

sometimes gray and cloudy 

bringing storms 

bringing cold 

leaving me to look east, wondering what the day will bring 

You’re a raging river 

after sudden summer rains 

relentless water plunging into valleys 

pulling houses in its wake 

my own voice lost in the roar 



You’re a warm tub of water 

a chest to lean against 

arms wrapped around me

your voice in my ear 

what I need to hear

You’re a cold stiff back

walling me off in the night 

my questions and tears too much 

you shut me out when I need you to say

"Shhhhhh, I'm here,” pull me near



Insecurity’s ugly

I wince to see it in myself

Believing you is what I want to do

But you gotta help me build that trust

You are an entire cast on stage 

The entire chorus and the lead 

The producer, the director 

The curtain itself 

You inspire me

You exhaust me 

You scare me 

You attract me 

You make me wanna turn away and protect myself 

You make me want to never step out of your radiance

Override

"Don't listen to your gut," my therapist tells me. "Listen to his words and accept them."

She's not really a therapist, more a coach who works for some app my employer gave us access to as a benefit—12 coaching sessions per year, for professional or personal use. I grabbed the chance for free therapy earlier this year when shit went sideways.

"But I did that already," I remind her. "I didn't trust my gut all summer, and you know what happened."

"Yes, well, give it a chance," she says. "It's different now. And if your gut tells you something, just put that aside and maybe in a month take a look and see if you notice a pattern."

Lady. Come on. 

I've been trying to do this, to trust the words and not my gut feeling. 

IT IS NOT EASY. I feel like I'm gaslighting myself—convincing myself that what I know is real is not. 

Friends have mixed takes on this approach. I listen to their perspectives. 

It is not, in some respects, a terrible approach: When my gut clenches up, I sit with it, think about it, give it time. And this is mostly serving me well, to be honest, but there are a couple of things that nag at me, dissonance that steps out of the rest of the flow and catches me later. Things that, frankly, don't add up. Is it a different perspective on details and timeframe, or are indeed some things missing or twisted? 

I don't want to always interrogate, which is how I come across. But I'd feel more secure with these loose bits in place. 

What we need is to find the line between my need for neat organization of facts and his need for...not sharing? Not being quizzed? Between my need for—let's just say it—honesty and his need for...the caginess a friend warned is unavoidable for him, the shapeshifting of truth, an essential need to lie so common with addicts. 

Again and again, the warning lights come on and I ignore them, like the lights flashing across the dashboard of my ten-year-old Outback. Sometimes when I restart the car, they're gone, and I'm calmer. 

The red and yellow words and symbols don't always mean the engine's about to blow; sometimes the sensor is tweaky. 

Right?