We walked your welsh terrier around the block, once, in the gloaming,
urging her kindly to shit. Your sister had wanted me to stay behind,
I had wanted to obey her, give her privacy, but you
had insisted it was my right to intrude. She was trying to tell us
Something important, unpleasant, but she didn’t want to say it.
Right before we went through the doors she spilled it,
a messy secret regarding her roommate from Brooklyn
who had come to visit for American Thanksgiving.
What? You yelled, right before your father threw the door open
and told us to hurry.
We are urged now, by Greta, by undeniable proof,
to see ourselves as living in a blistering present.
Nothing lays out in front; the past is rather meaningless.
And we don’t talk about the fashions of the decade before this,
or the way we might look back at now and laugh,
knowing what we are to know later. Right now it is the norm
to see the now as a desert we’re not getting out of.
Scientifically, this might be true, but I find that when I’m with you,
I look at every day like it’s already an old photograph,
the sepia degrading in a way that makes me sad,
but a sadness that is pleasurable, looking at the fading blur on our indelible smiles.
There, us at the party the night of convocation, sitting on the floor with beers,
me wearing my father’s dress shirt (I’d had a blue dress, but then it rained,
and I needed a formal outfit that was warmer),
and you irreverently ball-capped over your summer brush cut,
reclining, your elbow on my thigh, my head tilted and smiling, for once,
with teeth, and I can hear someone saying even in another time
Oh look, this is my parents in college. They hadn’t started dating yet.
When we go to see Marriage Story in theatres in Boston that weekend,
I don’t think about Greta Gerwig until after;
How can he claim to be self-aware about his own divorce if he’s got himself
another California girl? And predictably, we don’t hold hands;
Boston and Vancouver are not exactly New York and L.A. but still,
and yet I glue the ticket stub in my diary later, and I feel
like someday we’ll laugh and mention Marriage Story like we went to see
The Philadelphia Story, like there was a war-time newsreel first,
as if we kissed while Scarlett was crying, even though
it was hardly a date anyways, since your parents paid,
and your sisters roommate sat between us— we know something
about him now.
And the picture we took of ourselves at your favourite bakery,
your hair slicked and collar sharp, and you asked me,
How many of that same shirt do you have? And I was offended
for my solid-colour turtlenecks, which really do all come
from different stores. The waitresses all had
cute haircuts and shoes that tap-tapped softly, one of them looked like
the host of our convocation party, but stretched out, taller,
like she’d had leg implants. Every time, you say,
I’m hurt that she doesn’t know me. We took a picture
of us both over the pie you bought, us both with a paper straw in our mouths,
leaned close together over the chocolate malted, making stupid faces,
like grandma and grandpa stealing an evening after she finished work at the library
and he finished driving tractor. I wish I’d had pearls
to complete my outfit, polish it, like a lady.
I cannot believe that in another time we’d not have come together,
that you’d not have crossed borders for your schooling,
that I’d have gone to school in Victoria with the rest of my grad class,
that compulsory heterosexuality and my grandfather's head for business
would have married me off already,
that you’d still have your long hair.
I can’t believe that in a black and white photograph of us, it wouldn’t be
exactly as it is; nor can I imagine a future where
Boston or Vancouver is sinking into the ocean. It seems like if you wanted it,
you could have a picture perfect prom night, again, like the universe
Would have to listen to you, and I would take your arm,
squeeze your bicep, to flatter you, and come silently along with your will.
Stapleton Nash is a Vancouver Island poet and essayist. She has been published in Lunate, Mookychick, and Headline Poetry and Press, among other publications. You can find her on Twitter at @StapletonKNash.