The table opposite ours hosted a gaggle of Ateneans. Discreetly (I hope), I pointed out a lanky boy on whose shirt I recognized the logo of a former organization. Ace confirmed it was Matanglawin's sly, clawed "M" stenciled just below the nape and I allowed myself a few seconds to waver in that grave nostalgia until my companion snapped me back to our conversation. When she messaged me to arrange dinner, she mentioned an experience she wanted to relate and I was eager to hear the entire story. My favorite part came when, quoting one of her other friends, she said "ako nga gin at bench lang may magagawa na, 'eh." I asked her to call me should she find herself in the same situation although we both highly doubted anything like that would happen (again).
I have to tell you something about my relationship with this friend: she brings out the best in me, including a truly formidable z-snap. In the midst of our careless banter, I can put down my guard. I allow her, I hope, to drive the conversation wherever she wants because I'm confident it will never get away from us. At the same time, I regret the sometimes brutal honesty she inspires in me. Instead of feeling exposed or nude in front of a gaping audience, I simply feel unperturbed, comfortable. And I feel sometimes the weight of my own unburdening as it lifts off my shoulders. I told her, I said, "you are one of the most solid people I know" because I had never told her, I had let it slip between the lines, some inarticulate oral contract that gave me license to be myself but I realized that a life of conversation would never say that unless I directed the words. Last night, also, I finished reading The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle and friends of mine will comment here on my love of dangerous creatures. Schmendrick the magician said you can talk to everything and what you said would matter less than how you said it but I think for myself I botched the attempt last night. Perhaps the page is more forgiving than the ear.
I've found myself in several instances desiring to pick up relationships where I dropped them. I pick up the frayed ends and remind myself there is no going back. There's comfort in that knowing you can choose and, where appropriate, stay silent. But for myself, I have begun uttering these apologies, managing a handful:
But for Ace, I have no apologies. I have only gratitude because she never left. I hope she knows that the months of radio silence were, first, for my own protection and, second, implemented to protect something I couldn't risk losing. There are different kinds of loss, I realized. I have met at least three kinds and categorized them--not according to duration or time or pain--but in the manner in which they appeared, a chronological progression of loss. Maybe I will write about them but for now, Ace, I hope you know you were the kind of loss I surrendered to, an anchor to a skiff. You caught me at the shore.
