BEGINNINGS
The first three breaths after the last tremor of orgasm.
The first sixty seconds after the argument’s final howl.
The silence echoing the phone call that said,
“Your father died last night.”
The heart’s gallop when a future lover smiles in your direction.
The feral cries of an infant after deliverance from the birth canal.
Soon…
The world reforms itself.
The second hand starts moving.
We've been "debriefing" . . . it's always helpful to know what steps to take next or what to back away from. He said he was afraid I had gone into shock in the middle of the night, and that is exactly what happened (I didn't have a term for it). I became so cold--as in standing in outside naked in the Arctic circle type of cold--he wrapped me in three blankets and held me as I shivered, as my body went cold and numb and extreme nausea rushed through me; he whispered to me, he cradled me like a baby until my body started to warm up. All I knew is that my body could not handle one second more of intensity.
With each release of orgasm after orgasm, grief gushed up from deep places; immense sadness without words, without a name. Swimming in a sea of sadness, he was the anchor. He accepts my need for release, for catharsis, with no judgment. He doesn't need to know why and I don't need to explain. We share a silent acceptance of all things sexual and our reactions to them. I don't understand where the grief comes from or why it only comes up when I'm with him. When I'm with my husband, it is simply sweet pleasure. I don't understand, but it is.
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