From the Files of Portland
4:45 a.m. The Super 8. Portland, Oregon. Sunday, November 14, 1999.
My eyes open slowly, and they take in everything around me, reprocessing where I am, where I have been this weekend and the dream I have lived in. I'm lying in the bed on my stomach with a warm, white sheet pulled up over my body. There is a noise from the bathroom, and I hear Tom walk out after the toilet flushes. He walks over, his skin soft in the dark light, and slides back into bed. I turn on my side to face him as he pulls the sheet up over his shoulder. "It's a quarter 'til five," he says as his big blue eyes look up at me. I say nothing, and he wiggles across the bed and pulls me into his arms.
I fold into his chest like I have a million times before, but it aches numbly this time. We hold onto each other with our hands pressed against each other's backs, letting the warmth pass between us. I vaguely feel like if my chest can press tightly enough against his, if my skin can dissolve into his, then my heart will touch his. My heart wants to. I don't want to leave him. I want to be connected.
Around five, the phone rings loudly from across the room. It is almost harmonious to the harsh quiet. Tom lets go of me and climbs out of bed to answer. It's our wake up call, and I think, "This is it. I will crawl out of this bed and get ready like it is any other day. I will get ready and go. I will leave. I will board that plane and leave. And everything will be fine. "
Tom hangs up the phone and returns to the bed and pulls me toward him again. I hold his head in my hand as it rests against my shoulder. His hair is twisted and coarse from the dreads. It has a new smell. He has a new smell. Somewhere in my mind I know this isn't just our last moment together for the trip. I know we are holding onto each other so tightly because something is telling us this is the last time forever. I just don't think about it, and I wait. I think I am waiting for him to say we need to go.
He says nothing so I hold onto him; his head his back his hands and arms and shoulders. I just hold on.
