Night falls fast;
Today is in the past.
– Edna St. Vincent Millay
I attached him to the weather, although at the time, I didn’t know that was happening. I loved him so deeply that he became intertwined with everything else I loved.
I attached him to the summer. In June, we were driving in his car. I was wearing a blue and white cotton skirt and a yellow t-shirt, pale-blue flip flops. We held hands on the way to a lake where we floated inside inner tubes under a blue sky. I lay backwards, my long red hair drifting on the surface of the water, resembling thread-like filaments of algae. He counted the freckles across the tops of my pale knees. A hum of dragonflies above cool water. On the way home, yellow-gold cornfields stretched high on both sides; an orange-red sun hung low in the sky. He said he had never loved anyone as much as me.
These were the early days, when we were first joined together, long ago.
I attached him to the spring. March. All the snow was gone when we kissed for the first time in the fading light of my garden. It was unseasonably warm. He pulled me towards him. We stayed up all night talking and laughing, drinking in my kitchen. We went to a diner at 4 am for breakfast. It was mostly empty, illuminated by soft, fluorescent lights. Outside the window was dark and silent. We were lost in our own world –the lovers' world.
He crossed a distance to love me, patiently dismantling the wall I had put up to keep myself safe.
Song of a chickadee. Trill of a robin. I attached him to these aching sweet sounds, carried through the cool early evening air where we sat on a hill by railroad tracks. I attached him to the sound of a beer can being opened, to the pop of bottle caps, to the feeling of being drunk, back when drinking was new. I attached him to darkly-lit bars where we put songs on juke-boxes; he leaned in and whispered all the words in my ear. He said let’s have one more for the road.
I attached him to a river, to the majestic silver-grey Mississippi. I’d never really seen the Mississippi until we drove along its meandering banks, with the windows all rolled down, the water stretching wide to one side, glimmering with the reflection of the sky.
I attached him to the migration of birds, in flocks and V-shaped formations across the sky. I attached him to northern flickers and common grackles: dark purplish heads with pale yellow eyes and a glossy black body. I attached him to red-tailed hawks. He said they can see small prey from great distances flying in the sky.
Without knowing, I attached him to earth and water, riverbanks and trees.
I attached him to an overgrown green meadow, tall grasses and purple wildflowers, to switchgrass and wild bergamot. One Sunday, we stood in silence watching two white-tailed deer. He said if they get startled, they’d be gone in a flash, disappearing into the trees.
I attached him to the open road, to the soundtracks of our journeys, to the call of herons and crows. I attached him to the songs we sang together, always laughing our heads off. I attached him to our playlist: 36 songs, 2 hours, 46 minutes.
Without knowing, I attached him to sunlight and moonlight, to the starlight in the sky.
I attached him to Canada. We drove there every summer, leaving early in the morning with the car all packed up. I attached him to provinces: Ontario, Quebec, Nova Scotia; to places: Sault-Saint Marie, Cape Breton, and the winding, mesmerizing Cabot Trail. We drove through Acadian forests, along the edges of steep coastal cliffs. I attached him to a place called Harmony Beach on Lake Superio where we lay rolled up in a blanket, eyes locked together, heartbeats entrained.
I attached him to cups of coffee and cherry pie; cherry danish and banana bread.
I attached him to my bedroom, to the light filtering through the window, to a blanket and a pillow with a soft hollow where his head was. I attached him to the night, where our bodies fell into a tender embrace after time apart, longing for each other. I attached him to falling asleep, our bodies entwined. I attached him to my dreams.
I attached him to the winter. In December, we were driving in the snow, holding hands, always the first thing we did after fastening our seat belts. The snow was coming down sideways, with the force of a storm only completely silent. The car barely made a sound as it glided over the snow-covered road. Around us was a golden and nostalgic light. I felt we were inside a snowglobe. The blizzard intensified. He said everything would be fine.
I attached him to my fears and insecurities, to the fear of losing him that dragged me through each day. From the start, I was frightened our bliss had been cursed. I attached him to my suspicions and silence.
The only thing to come was the end.
The love we shared turned brittle, and slowly diminished over time, forming fractures until it was broken beyond repair. The magic dulled and grew murky. The snow inside our tiny world refused to swirl; scenes were left lifeless. He said things didn’t feel the same anymore.
I lost him one day at a time
I didn’t fully know what happened. He said sometimes people drift apart. I pictured waves drifting away from the shoreline, gradually moving farther out to sea. I began to feel like a stranger around him.
He crossed a distance to leave me; I reassembled the wall around myself.
I attached him to my clothes, the ones that evoked the times I had worn them with him. A small black dress to a party, a soft red t-shirt in a dive bar after swimming in a lake, a warm grey cardigan during a conversation on a bench. I folded up all the items that brought him to mind and gave them away to charity. Afterwards, I knelt on the floor and cried because I realized I had also attached him to my body, to all the parts of me he had touched and loved. To the bones inside my hands, fingertips and nerves, to lips and mouth. To my long red seaweed hair. I felt an unbearable pressure in my chest, the longing for something remembered but unreachable.
I attached him to love. I knew I was doing that, but it happened before I could catch myself.
Night fell fast, and with it – the world we shared together vanished into the past.
Sarah Harley (she/her) is originally from the UK. She works at Milwaukee High School of the Arts where she helps refugee students to tell their own stories. Sarah holds a BA in Comparative Literature and French, as well as an MA in Foreign Language and Literature. Her work is deeply informed by her lived experience navigating depression, childhood trauma, and PTSD. Her essays have appeared in West Trade Review, Glassworks Magazine, Mud Season Review, and elsewhere. You can read more of her work here: sarahharley888.com.