I Wonder
This late at night, I wonder if you’re still up. I wonder if you’re still reading in that large red recliner of yours, pushed up against the window. The one we used to sit in, talking about our futures until daylight appeared through those thick dark grey curtains.
Well, I’m still up and I’m still wondering.
I wonder if you still remember that time we had walked around campus and stopped at the Agnes Etherington Art Centre. You had asked me what I thought of the squiggles on the east wall and on the accompanying rocks – you had asked me what the indistinguishable swirls reminded me of and wouldn’t let go until I answered. You let me go on guessing, putting forth ridiculous ideas; the cables on a train track, a parallel universe, the trail of a shooting star and the spin of a black hole – all before you admitted that you too, didn’t have a clue.
I wonder if you still remember the stroll we took through MacDonald Park in the spring. We walked along the Rideau Trail and made our way towards the Waterfront. We looked across the St. Lawrence River at the spinning wind turbines over on Wolfe Island. You explained how they converted kinetic wind into harvested electrical energy. When I gave you a curious look, you simply shrugged and said, “mechanics class” and went on about the Betz law. The inefficiency, you said, was partly due to the friction and drag of the rotor blades - half of which worsen with time.
I wonder if you still remember the visit we made to the Wellington Street Theatre in the summer. We watched a production of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing, giggling at the wit exchanged between the histrionic Benedick and the cynical Beatrice. During intermission, you leaned over the armrest and revealed you were secreting rooting for Don John and Barochio’s conspiracy. I asked why. While Claudio was haste, Hero was gentle and lovely. You responded that while you were wretched Hero would suffer terribly, she shouldn’t have left herself so vulnerable. Not as vulnerable as Beatrice, I contested.
I wonder if you ever go back to The Underground and think about that time we were there in the fall. It had been a careless Monday night. I sat with you in a quiet booth amidst the bustling crowd, getting the feeling I should have already been home. Hours earlier, you had showed me the Douglas Library. We climbed three floors and reached the top, into a cool air-conditioned room with the words 1923 Reading Room atop the sky-high ceiling. We had intended to study but ended up behind a bookshelf, just listening to the sound of footsteps and papers rustling.
I wonder if you remember how we had attended the Grant Hall SciFormal that one warm winter night. How we had lay beneath the stars afterwards, your arm wrapped around me. I finally asked you what you thought those swirls on the east wall had meant. You said you had always thought them to be contrails left behind by airplanes – carbon dioxide and water released by engines, frozen just like the condensation of clouds. You pointed up above towards a moving trail of light and said that someday, we were going to be on one of those ourselves - someplace different, someplace new, someplace where we could be together all the time.
I wonder if you ever think about me now. When you make your way past the Agnes Etherington Art Centre to class, do you ever stop to notice the distinguishable swirls? When you walk by the Waterfront, do you still notice the stillness of the waves lapping against the shore? When you drive down Wellington Street, do you ever think about the spurious death of Hero? And on late nights, when you find yourself studying atop the Douglas Library, do you ever think of me?
I wonder if you know that every time your name appears on my caller ID, it takes everything in me not to pick up. I wonder if you knew I had continued to write you throughout the day, the number of texts accumulating in my drafts folder. I wonder if you knew we were fooling ourselves – I wonder if you knew it all along.
I wonder if it was for the best – but I should regress. It’s 4AM and I’m still writing. I had thought that if I could get it all down, it would no longer contain me - threaten to destroy me. These words are my confessions shattered aloud.
But still, I can’t help myself – I wonder if you ever wonder about me.
Well, I’m still up and I’m still wondering.
I wonder if you still remember that time we had walked around campus and stopped at the Agnes Etherington Art Centre. You had asked me what I thought of the squiggles on the east wall and on the accompanying rocks – you had asked me what the indistinguishable swirls reminded me of and wouldn’t let go until I answered. You let me go on guessing, putting forth ridiculous ideas; the cables on a train track, a parallel universe, the trail of a shooting star and the spin of a black hole – all before you admitted that you too, didn’t have a clue.
I wonder if you still remember the stroll we took through MacDonald Park in the spring. We walked along the Rideau Trail and made our way towards the Waterfront. We looked across the St. Lawrence River at the spinning wind turbines over on Wolfe Island. You explained how they converted kinetic wind into harvested electrical energy. When I gave you a curious look, you simply shrugged and said, “mechanics class” and went on about the Betz law. The inefficiency, you said, was partly due to the friction and drag of the rotor blades - half of which worsen with time.
I wonder if you still remember the visit we made to the Wellington Street Theatre in the summer. We watched a production of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing, giggling at the wit exchanged between the histrionic Benedick and the cynical Beatrice. During intermission, you leaned over the armrest and revealed you were secreting rooting for Don John and Barochio’s conspiracy. I asked why. While Claudio was haste, Hero was gentle and lovely. You responded that while you were wretched Hero would suffer terribly, she shouldn’t have left herself so vulnerable. Not as vulnerable as Beatrice, I contested.
I wonder if you ever go back to The Underground and think about that time we were there in the fall. It had been a careless Monday night. I sat with you in a quiet booth amidst the bustling crowd, getting the feeling I should have already been home. Hours earlier, you had showed me the Douglas Library. We climbed three floors and reached the top, into a cool air-conditioned room with the words 1923 Reading Room atop the sky-high ceiling. We had intended to study but ended up behind a bookshelf, just listening to the sound of footsteps and papers rustling.
I wonder if you remember how we had attended the Grant Hall SciFormal that one warm winter night. How we had lay beneath the stars afterwards, your arm wrapped around me. I finally asked you what you thought those swirls on the east wall had meant. You said you had always thought them to be contrails left behind by airplanes – carbon dioxide and water released by engines, frozen just like the condensation of clouds. You pointed up above towards a moving trail of light and said that someday, we were going to be on one of those ourselves - someplace different, someplace new, someplace where we could be together all the time.
I wonder if you ever think about me now. When you make your way past the Agnes Etherington Art Centre to class, do you ever stop to notice the distinguishable swirls? When you walk by the Waterfront, do you still notice the stillness of the waves lapping against the shore? When you drive down Wellington Street, do you ever think about the spurious death of Hero? And on late nights, when you find yourself studying atop the Douglas Library, do you ever think of me?
I wonder if you know that every time your name appears on my caller ID, it takes everything in me not to pick up. I wonder if you knew I had continued to write you throughout the day, the number of texts accumulating in my drafts folder. I wonder if you knew we were fooling ourselves – I wonder if you knew it all along.
I wonder if it was for the best – but I should regress. It’s 4AM and I’m still writing. I had thought that if I could get it all down, it would no longer contain me - threaten to destroy me. These words are my confessions shattered aloud.
But still, I can’t help myself – I wonder if you ever wonder about me.