We met on the street. Our eyes caught, snagged. Your friends introduced you.

Later, unable to shake the feel of your hand wrapped in mine, I seek you out. Surrounded by strangers, lights swirling, music loud and empty, we kiss. And there we are born, alone together at the eye of our beautiful, silent tornado.

I enter your home, drink in the worlds you've lain down on paper, canvas. I know and you see that I know. Your voice is a grownup's lullaby, deep, soft against my ear: "Oh Billy, we shine in similar colors."

The morning after, leaving, I ask if I can take your photograph. No. You take mine instead. The best ever taken of me. Through the lens of you I am radiant, joyful, proud, calm, unaware that you own me.

Twelve years gone now.

Life with you was breathless, a tumbling thrill down the rabbit hole. How could I drown so many times, yet wake fully alive, day after day?

Till the day I woke to find you'd chosen not to. In fleeing, freeing yourself, you stain me for life.

And so on my knees, I stain a towel with the last of you, crimson black, the color now of my heart. I allow no one else near it.

As I continue to scrub, to sob, your note on the mirror overhead taunts my labors. "See you soon."

No.

41 years and my losses are mounting. Lost the warmth of the womb because of the urge to breathe. Crawled for a bit and then found my feet because, 'Hey, is that something shiny over there?' Then lost the use of my legs because the shiny thing turned out to be a car.

Lost my smooth, cute cheeks to puss and stubble, and the loud glee of childhood to sullenness and space invaders.

Fell in with a bad crowd and a bad girl because I needed to lose my innocence. Then found a good girl too early and lost my heart. Lost her because I needed to 'find myself.' Idiot! Found myself to be not worth finding, but then stumbled across my soulmate and found my kids because of this primal urge to lose my freedom.

Oh, and each loss regretted at one time or another, even the womb on cold, short, loveless winter days. But hey, a life full of loss is a life full indeed!

I'm traveling today, so here is my, not to be taken seriously , contribution.

You bastard.

(can't wait to read everthing else when I return home)

nebrad: Thank you for this. It was wonderful to read - an easy rhythm and bitter/sweet wisdom in every line.

I've been trying to write about this all week, and obviously am not there yet . . . but here goes anyway:

“Can I have another cup of tea, Auntie M?” my new nephew asked, his big grin lighting up his face. “Sure, kid.” I walked into the big kitchen of the country house we were renting just outside of Detroit, and grabbed a frosty Bud out of the refrigerator.“ Here ya go.” I tossed the can in his general direction. Expertly popping the top with a big fizzzt! Kevin gulped his suds. I gave him a friendly punch on the arm, then sat on the couch next to my husband, his uncle.

I had inherited Kevin through Bob, who was the youngest of three siblings. I was ten years younger than Bob, so my new nephews were only 6 and 8 years younger than me. They got a kick out of their uncle marrying a woman who was practically their contemporary, and “a cup of tea with Auntie Marilyn” became a family joke.

Alcohol was almost always part of the picture when we all got together . . . Kevin, his brother Jeff, Bob and me. Drinking beer in the hayloft of the barn belonging to the farmhouse the brothers rented in a small town adjacent to the college they both attended . . . with rock music booming across the green lawn, past the pool, and over the pond. Drinking more beer in our 1920’s Philadelphia rowhouse, followed by a few hits on the Bong. And still more beer in the back of pickup trucks while we drove the winding back roads of the Poconos. It was all great fun.

Later, when Jeff moved to Vermont and dropped out of our lives, Bob, Kevin and I kept up the party. Beer turned into wine turned into martinis. The funky farmhouse morphed into funkier apartments in Brooklyn and Manhattan. The college kid grew up, went into publishing, and years later became a VP at Random House.

Meanwhile, the drinking escalated in my household, and I finally faced the fact that my husband, as charming, funny and talented as he was, was never going to be sober enough to hold down a job.

After the divorce, I still saw Kevin . . . and our relationship gradually changed from aunt-nephew to closer-than-close friends, and, inevitably it seemed, to lovers. Then, right after 9/11, he got fired. Something about “politics and the pre-pubescent German prick who sabotaged me.” Something about “being betrayed.” Something about “I’ll never get a job that pays that well again.”

So I watched, as his evening martinis turned into lunch martinis and then a neverending series of martinis throughout the afternoon. I said, “counseling, AA, give it a try, don’t give up.” Then one day, in his now-filthy Park Slope apartment, I saw him casually open the refrigerator door, take out the gin bottle, and pour himself a drink. It was ten o’clock in the morning. I walked away.

Last I heard, Kevin was admitted to Bellevue with advanced cirrhosis. Something about “collapsing in the street,” something about “delirious,” something about “exploded veins in his throat.” He’s only 54, and has about six months to live.

Lost love? How about lost life?

Love this! How long before you'll be slaying us with one word, destroying us with none?

@