The Worn Path of Love

The safest path

With the onset of winter, sea fog no longer hangs about the hills above Sausalito, or clings to the atmosphere above the Golden Gate Bridge. The morning is clear, and having spent the night in San Francisco, it was 9 a.m. as I drove over the Bridge.

The yacht has not been cleaned since summer, but I don’t feel ambitious enough for such an undertaking this late into the pandemic season. I feel exposed, open to everything without the comfort of the fog. Even the Bridge looks ordinary without the atmospheric wool hiding my access to the Robin Williams’ Tunnel and the sunshine through the other side. I have felt weary, idle, and am looking forward to the doctor’s couch above Sausalito.

“A cigar?” He asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Whisky?”

“For medicinal purposes, only.” I said.

I lit the cigar, inhaling deeply its fragrance — then exhaling, sighed with contentment; the cigar was excellent.

“You’ll join me in a whisky?” I prompted.

I reclined against the head of the couch, stretched out my feet, conscious of a luxurious sensation — and sent my thoughts across the Bay, where they remained with Jenny.

The doctor was in low spirits. He talked about the state of the country, divided about the way forward, the vaccines, and the health of the nation outside Sausalito. I didn’t care about the rest of the nation; I came wanting him to tell me how it will feel to die.

I felt extremely comfortable on the couch. I felt soothed to hear the doctor tell how death feels. There is always something pleasantly exciting about the prospective — when it is far away from you. It seemed so beautifully distant from the perfume of the cigar smoke, the flavor of whisky, and the restfulness of the couch. My mind wandered to Jenny — as wander it would — despite my studied attention to the doctor’s words.

My favorite pastime is to listen to others speaking. I never seem able to think of any topics worthy of conversation myself, but am inclined to say that my ability to listen amounts to being an art. I can remain silent with an air of absorbing interest, and occasionally offer brief comment, not setting forth an opinion or displaying any knowledge — for I have none to spare — but merely to suggest variety.

After an hour of luxury, I paid him an excessive amount for the whisky and cigar. I was, however, well equipped to deal with the possibility of dying.

Treading the boardwalk, heading to Roma…coffee…still caught up in the drowsiness of the psychiatrist’s couch, and worn-out ideas of a life ever after. I come to wait for Jenny. Sausalito is a cruel place for one waiting for romance, poetry, and the safety of a well-loved face. I once enjoyed being alone, aloof, even mad, better than to be with just anybody.

She will come and penetrate the shadows, like sunlight, and hold me. Holding my coral fears inside her arms.

The worn path of love is an assured safe passage home.