The Frenchman – The Salty Widow

You say I never write about you. It’s true.
well
Not exactly true. You are in everything I write.
You are part of how I am able to be
still here
So yes I have written about you.

But tonight it is in a conversation with another lover that I think of you that I am reminded of you.

I am saying that you are French and you wear scent and I don’t think that the French are allowed to not wear scent and this makes me giggle.
And that what you wear is perfect for you and not too much and just enough. Just like you are not too much and just enough.
I say that you are polished, and smooth, and slick, and you wear cufflinks (you wear cufflinks that I made for you) and you always look perfect and that I love when I cause you
to
not
look perfect.
That it makes me happy.
I know how happy it makes you to have me undo you.

I smile for the smile in my voice and my lover can hear that smile and he knows that smile.
He has heard that smile. He has made me make that smile.

You have allowed me to be open about who I am
what I want
how I know my worth.
Your vulnerability with me has allowed me to feel safe, and worthy, and brave.
You have trusted me, and gained my trust.
I can depend on the memory of you.
I have learned the importance of being wanted instead of needed.

Desired. Ached for, pined for. Lusted after and well missed. Treasured. Cherished.

Adored.

“I just want to say I love you
And make sure you feel it every day
‘Cause if today had been my last chance
It’s just something I wanted to say”

Je t’aime. Je t’adore.

(you have a playlist. this is on it)

“I don’t know how it’s possible, but I, I think my birthday this year was possibly the best one I’ve ever had. It’s certainly one of the most special, and I want to thank everyone for being a part of it. 52 on 5/2 I’m certainly not playing with a full deck it’s more like a deck full of jokers.
So thank you everyone for being part of it.”

for the record (and as far as i know you look it up if you don’t believe me) for the past fifty-two years it has been shitty exactly once on my birthday. That was 2001, the year I turned 33 and one of the years I was in and around dating Noel. I’m sure he had just recently broken it off again. Anyway.

my parents built the house I grew up in in 1970. A typical, split-level ranch. Right outside my bedroom window they planted this glorious cherry tree, a Kanzan Sakura, with the big, fat, pale pink marshmallowy blossoms. I love that tree, it’s my favorite flower of all. Blooms every year on my birthday.

I don’t remember how early on but it was early, I told Gary that when I finally owned my own home I would plant one of those trees in my yard. The first spring that we were in the house we planted our tree. We didn’t plant it in a good spot, it didn’t get anywhere near the kind of sunlight it needed underneath the massive canopy of maple and oak. I could, however, see the blossoms from my bedroom window.

Last year, after the house went into foreclosure, I knew that would be my last birthday with that view, of cherry blossoms from my bedroom window. And then the neighbor went ahead and chopped down the maple and oak, that gorgeous canopy of green that had been protecting my head for 13 years. A full backyard of sunlight meant that the cherry tree would have a chance to grow properly now, reaching up towards the sun instead of slinking around corners to find it. Only I wouldn’t be here.

This year however, with the world on pause, I got one last, magical reprieve to spend with my tree. So I went to my backyard, prepared to see admirers as any queen would, and enjoyed my day under the cherry blossoms.