after Franz Wright
The venue empties slowly then all at once, the way summer evenings do. Like a scene from a stop-motion film, the last guests filter out beneath the California sycamore trees in glimpses, illuminated in frames by the amber string lights hanging overhead. Only the bride and groom remain. They turn slowly together in the dim night. I pack up my things and head for the exit. The faint chatter of niceties is a good thing; it makes me feel less alone in the dark.
I embark on the journey homeward. Among winding roads, dark hills adorned with lights on here and there, blurred vignettes of oak trees and vineyards, I recognize a sinking feeling in my heart. It is an aching kind of feeling. For beauty has once again turned in my direction, but not to see me, not to welcome me in. Like a sweet, classroom love note where I am its messenger; a sweetness tasted but not consumed, a message not intended for me, but merely overheard.
The air through the open window smells faintly of dry grass. And I think, There must be thousands of people in this city who pine, who dream, who long to welcome another into their small bolted rooms, to sit them down and share what wondrous things have happened to their lives. I think of myself, of my friends, of those who continue to struggle in the waiting, in the painstaking process of becoming. And an intense love rushes to my heart, and hope. It’s unendurable, unendurable.
