The Realm of Possibility Read online

and I want the moments to go on forever.

  There is a Polaroid of him and Daniel taped to the dashboard, right next to the clock. They are on a ferry, the sea behind them. Jed leaning his shoulder over so Daniel can lean down into him. That wistful lucky happiness on their faces.

  I was worried at first.

  Worried for Jed, yes.

  But also worried for me.

  He'd dated other boys,

  but Daniel was something else.

  He realized that from the beginning.

  I didn't I didn't

  want him to be hurt. want him to leave me.

  You will always be my always, he

  assured me.

  And I believed him, because he'd

  never given me reason not to.

  (If I'd wanted to sleep with him,

  I think it would've been different.)

  The three of us do not go out very often

  as the three of us. I think Daniel is perfect

  for Jed, which is the highest compliment

  I can give. But my friendship isn't with him,

  and Jed understands that. When we hit the road,

  we hit it together alone.

  We get to the bridge, our undestined destination. Even though there's no sign, no arrow, Jed turns at the last minute and parks us in a verge right before the bridge leaves the ground.

  The trunk pops open, and Jed runs round back to retrieve a bag of oranges and a sweatshirt of his that fits me better.

  Shall we make like lizards and leap? he asks.

  I have never felt the urge to jump off a bridge,

  but there are times I have wanted to jump

  out of my life,

  out of my skin.

  Would you stroll me down the promenade instead? I ask back.

  He offers his arm and says, Most certainly, my splendid.

  I am surprised there's a sidewalk—the bridge stretches between two points of nowhere, there are no other pedestrians in sight. The walkway is narrow—if Jed and I walk side by side, one of us ends up right in the lap of the traffic.

  Make way for ducklings, I suggest.

  I fall back, follow him. I like for him to be in front, because that way I can watch his hair blowing wild, the bag of oranges swaying, the lift of his shoes. When I'm not looking at him, I look at the river running beneath us, its own stream of traffic.

  There is no word for our kind of friendship. Two people who don't see each other a lot, but can make each other effortlessly happy.

  We stop at the center.

  I don't know how he determines it,

  but when I look,

  both ends appear to be

  the same distance away.

  We sit on the walkway

  and dangle our legs through the railings,

  kicking the air.

  As he peels me an orange, he asks, If I tell you something startling, do you promise not to swoon?

  I nod, and watch the orange peels fall to the river.

  I've gotten him a ring, he says.

  It wasn't until Jed that I understood

  how a person could be disarming.

  I have spent years of my life sitting

  in my room, creating defenses of

  cynicism, darkness, and bleakness.

  Jed's friendship is the skeleton key to

  my fortress. He disarms me every

  time.

  Let me see it, I reply.

  He hands me the open orange, sections pulled back like petals. He wipes his fingers, then carefully reaches into his pocket. What emerges is a claddagh.

  Two hands, one heart.

  I have seen the rings before, but never like this. Never held between two fingers instead of worn on one. Never in the windblown sun, never so high over the water. Never so close to me.

  Two hands, one heart.

  Do the two hands belong to two different people? Are they holding their love in common, keeping it perfectly balanced? Or do the two hands belong to one person, giving the heart as an offering (take this, it's yours)?

  At that moment, a truck speeds across the bridge. It comes dangerously close to us and shakes the false ground that we sit on.

  I am jolted forward, into the rail.

  The orange falls from my hand.

  And the word I think is precarious. Because as the bridge rocks like a beast with a

  tremor down its spine, as I pitch forward so close to the air of no return, I am struck

  by how precarious it all is. How the things that hold us are only as strong as

  the faith we have in them—

  you go on the bridge because you trust it will not fall

  the fingers will clasp because we trust them to.

  You need two hands to hold a heart.

  The tremors subside and I look over to Jed. He is ghostly pale, but the ring is still between his forefinger and thumb. He has held on, because he could not consider letting go.

  How precarious, I say.

  And he says, You mean precious.

  He gives the ring to me, and I hold a small part of his future in my palm.

  You trust me that much? I ask.

  He smiles and says, I do.

  Possibility

  Here's what I know about the realm of possibility—

  it is always expanding, it is never what you think

  it is. Everything around us was once deemed

  impossible. From the airplane overhead to

  the phones in our pockets to the choir girl

  putting her arm around the metalhead.

  As hard as it is for us to see sometimes, we all exist

  within the realm of possibility. Most of the limits

  are of our own world's devising. And yet,

  every day we each do so many things

  that were once impossible to us.

  There are hundreds of reasons for Daniel and me

  to be impossible. History has not been kind

  to two boys who love each other like we do.

  But putting that aside. And not even considering

  the fact that a hundred and fifty years ago,

  his family was in a small town in Russia

  and my family was in a similarly small town

  in Ireland—I can't imagine they could have

  imagined us here, together. Forgetting our gender,

  ignoring all the strange roads that led to us

  being in the same time and place, there is still

  the simple impossibility of love. That all of our

  contradicting securities and insecurities,

  interests and disinterests, beliefs and doubts

  could somehow translate into this common

  uncommon affection should be as impossible

  as walking to the moon. But instead, I love him.

  When everybody knows you, it is easy

  to think that nobody will ever really know you.

  With the boy before Daniel, I could only feel

  the limits. I found myself cordoning off parts of me,

  saying so much less than I wanted to say.

  When Daniel came into my life, the doors

  inside me were still locked. I wanted to be

  careful. I think our first true recognition

  was our mutual hesitation, our own need to be

  gradual. I liked him a lot, and was sure

  it wouldn't last. I couldn't believe in it

  because I was afraid to damage my faith.

  Every time you love someone, you put not just

  your faith in them, but your faith in everything

  to the test. I didn't think I was ready for that.

  On our fourth date, something changed.

  Impossible to fully describe, possible

  to tell. We went to a movie, and as soon

  as the theater went dark, all I was aware of

  was him next to me. I looked out the corner

  of my eye and thought he was transfixe
d

  by the movie. I wanted to touch him, to hold

  his hand, but had no way to be sure

  if it was the right thing to do. Slowly I inched

  my hand towards him, right to the edge

  of my seat. For a moment, I found nothing but

  air. Then, gently, the side of his hand

  touched the side of my hand. We both looked

  down and realized we had each done

  the same thing. We were equally scared

  and equally longing. Somehow we knew that

  my palm would turn and his palm would hover,

  until we were ready for that touch, that

  breathing through fingertips, that closeness

  that can only come when you give it.

  It has been a year now. The most understandable

  thing in the world should be how minutes lead to

  hours, how hours lead to days, how days can make

  a year. And yet, this neat progression can still be

  surprising. A year seems too monumental for us

  to have reached, and at the same time too small

  to contain all the minutes and hours and days

  we've had together. We set each month down

  like a marker beside the road, small anniversaries

  with the feeling of always moving forward.

  It took me a while to get used to this.

  There were so many other people in my life.

  I had spent all of my time listening,

  learning the longings we all have in common.

  I never took the time to hear them in myself

  until I heard them speaking to him.

  That desire for desire, that hope

  for hope, the possibility of everything

  truly possible. I had so many friends,

  so many nods and conversations,

  so many things I'd always wanted

  to say to someone.

  Twelve markers beside the road.

  His shoelaces always on the verge

  of being untied; a Pez dispenser

  bought after curfew in a vast supermarket;

  the pair of pants I was wearing when he first

  took them off; a photo of the two of us

  balanced on the seesaw in our park;

  the check that caused us to scream

  in argument over whose turn it was

  to pay; a box of cigarettes that lasted;

  the glow of the dashboard lights

  on his face as he slept on my shoulder;

  a mix of songs that have the words

  “All I Want” in the title; the notebook I keep

  of our ticket stubs; the valentine

  he made by drawing a heart on his palm;

  his name in my handwriting;

  my name in his.

  These things do not matter except

  that they matter to us.

  We have given them meaning

  in the same way that we have given

  each other meaning.

  It took me ten months to know

  we would make it to a year.

  Most songs that begin with “All I Want”

  end with “Is You”—it took me

  a few verses, but eventually I got there.

  How do you commemorate a year?

  A paper anniversary, but we are

  the words written down, not the paper.

  If I could, I would give him

  a lime-green couch, a cabin by a lake,

  a fireworks display, an orchard of butterflies,

  and the certainty that I love him.

  There is certainty in a ring.

  The non-ending, the non-beginning.

  The ongoing.

  The way it holds on to you

  not because it's been fastened

  or stretched or adhered.

  It holds on

  because it fits.

  I told him I was going to the city

  to see a show with my grandmother.

  But instead I walked from shop to shop

  looking among the glass-case rows

  until I found the claddagh,

  the two hands, the heart,

  and I knew there was no better way

  to say what I meant to say

  about what he meant to me.

  I wasn't thinking of marriage, just commitment.

  I wasn't thinking of forever, just reveling in now.

  We don't know yet how long we're meant to be—

  there are so many obstacles down the road.

  But there is also possibility; the ring marks the realm

  of possibility.

  There are times when we are sharing a pillow

  that I feel such joy, bewildering joy.

  Our anniversary is a Friday

  and I am nervous all through school.

  People know it's a big day, and they celebrate.

  I guess Daniel and I have

  talked about it enough that they know

  the exact date, and most of the details.

  I feel the ring in my pocket,

  marker of my anticipation

  for tonight, for beyond tonight.

  Can he sense the tiny added weight

  in my pocket? I don't think

  we will ever want to know each other

  that well, beyond surprise.

  Years into days.

  Days into hours.

  Hours into minutes.

  Minutes into moments.

  Moments into possibility.

  I catch him breaking into my locker,

  filling it with birds in flight,

  copied from photographs that were copied

  from life; later I will see

  there is a poem on the back of each wing.

  Poems that are not about us,

  but are about trees and teacups,

  fields and glances. Not about us,

  but about the things we hold dear.

  The moments we both collect

  by living our lives, together and alone.

  Rearranged alphabets, dream-remnant wonder,

  the seat of our love. I pretend

  I don't see him kneeling there,

  my own scotch-tape sweetheart.

  I walk wide in my happiness

  until I find the hall empty, Daniel's affection

  waiting to be opened.

  I spend the day withholding,

  not giving him a thing

  but thanks. He says I look

  like someone holding flowers

  behind his back. I offer my hands,

  smile at their emptiness, feel

  the ring pulse in my pocket,

  half-expecting it to glow

  like I do.

  Daniel looks a little bit happy and a little bit

  afraid, not that I've forgotten, but that

  it might not mean as much to me, that today

  will betray our unequal affections.

  We have never figured out whether I need

  to be more reassuring or if he just needs

  reassurances too much. We both try

  to readjust our settings to make it

  okay. He trusts me but doesn't always

  trust our love or himself. I hand him

  my invisible bouquet of flowers, tell him

  to wait and see, see and wait.

  I have no plan. After school,

  I lead him to my car, holding his hand

  as we walk through the parking lot,

  not brave or crazy, just in love.

  I walk around to his side of the car

  to unlock his door, open it for him.

  He asks me where we're going

  and I tell him that we'll be driving

  through our story for a little bit.

  After that fourth date, after our bodies

  finally touched, we drove around for hours,

  one hand on the steering wheel, the other<
br />
  in his hand, gliding over his arm,

  reaching in the headlight echo to feel

  the curve of his face, his shoulder.

  Pulling over to the side of the road

  for that first blind, intimate kiss,

  then talking past midnight as the hours

  trickled away like miles. A great distance

  covered, made familiar.

  We cannot help but retrace those steps

  as I drive without a plan. If we wanted to,

  we could be in Montreal in eight hours

  or Florida in a little over a day. We could

  stop at dozens of houses and find our friends.

  There are so many directions we could take,

  but instead I keep us close. And as I do, I begin

  to tell Daniel my version. I am taking him

  back to the moment in art class that we first

  noticed each other, I am telling him that

  the whole time I was talking about the surrealists

  I was wondering what it would be like

  to run my hand down his back, to be able

  to tell him the truth. I conjure our first date,

  our second, our fourth. He tries to stop me.

  As much as he seeks reassurance, he hates

  being talked about. But I tell him this is a part of it,

  what I want to give him on our anniversary.

  I want him to know.

  You think you know your possibilities.

  Then other people come into your life

  and suddenly there are so many more.

  The whole time I've been talking, the radio

  has remained silent. I've loaded the disc changer

  with mixes set at random, so when I press play,

  the result is a collage of our knowing references,

  raspberry swirl and a case of you,

  as cool as I am and galileo,

  the places you have come to fear the most,

  lucky denver mint, wonderwall,

  all I want is you.

  We live along to these songs,

  sing our parts, split sometimes

  into harmony and melody.

  We watch our town recede, return

  as I wind us through the streets,

  down the roads, past the lanes.

  I drive until the dimming of the day.

  In the twilight, I lead us to the park

  where not that long ago, I folded

  a ring for him out of the cellophane

  of a cigarette wrapper. I have seen it

  in his drawer, in the esoteric

  treasure-chest ashtray that holds

  so many of our mementos. This time

  I will give him a ring he can wear,

  something that doesn't need to be protected

  to last.

  A year. A thousand kisses. And now

  a thousand one, a thousand two.

  There are so many other places