marking time in a timeless world;
each day categorised,
labelled,
dated,
sealed
and stored
as proof against an interminable future,
an anchor to the shifting sands.
Dearest Adelaide,
I met you when I was two years old. Our love grew slowly- it was inconspicuously nurtured throughout my childhood and adolescence, and though its foundations were strong, I still yearned to leave you. Like the priviliged child with no concept of her advantages, I spurned you. Blind to your beauty, I set off to live in a 'real' city.
And I did. I can speak plainly, for I know you hold not with jealousy. I cohabitated with London, I let her dazzle me with her jewels and excite me with her life. I had a brief fling with Paris and still hold her esteemed elegance in high regard. Barcelona treated me to passion that I had never known before, and Warsaw then Cairo each offered a brief romance. Rome, Venice, and Nice- the three Italian sisters who plied me with wine, who danced with me 'til dawn, who bade me stay, please. I laughed at the thought of you then- dowdy Adelaide; a doilyed, tea cosied city, a retired city. I set out for Vancouver and embraced its winter chills and downtown thrills. I courted America for a while too- New York's canyons of steel, Seattle's late night joys, San Francisco's liberal, unfettered ecstasy of life and art. I went oriental too- Singapore's bustling crowds, Bangkok's humid, throbbing heat, Phnom Penh's supine sunsets, and Kathmandu's intrepid air of adventure.
I loved all of them, in their way. I looked back on my humble beginnings and was almost ashamed- I, who had wooed the best and brightes, who had the world's grandest cities lining up to show me wonder and riches, had come from Adelaide? It was like building a palace out of driftwood.
Now though, dear Adelaide- past the tempestuous pleasures of my youth, I have come home. What I used to deride I now embrace. Those ensnared by Sydney or Melbourne laugh when I speak your name, but I no longer turn aside, red-cheeked. I love that I can wander through your streets and be sure of meeting someone I know. I love that my 20 minute commute is a ride along a river, past eucalypts and reeds, with parrots and pigeons. I love that the wine I see in liquor stores in Chicago and Sinagpore and Oxford comes from an hour out of the city. I love that your summer limits itself to a few brief heat waves, and that your autumn reclines gently across March and April and steals a few weeks from May to continue its mild and lovely weather.
So thank you, Adelaide, for your tireless affection. Thank you for understanding my other worldly paramours, and for welcoming me back always. Thanks for a rich youth, and for what I'm sure will be a gorgeous future.
Love always,
Rowan
I may become a father.
I spoke to a good friend this morning. She lives interstate and though we only talk rarely, our friendship is still strong. She told me about her travels, about her new uni course, new business, new job as a circus trainer, and new volunteer position at a women's outreach centre. She likes to keep busy. I told her about my work over the summer, about honours at uni, about my latest joys and woes.
She told me that she and her partner (another woman) were planning to have a child over the next few years. They want a sperm donor who they know and like, who is intelligent, and who looks like them.
"You and I look alike", she said simply.
I've been thinking about it all day. Not thinking about whether or not to do it- it would be an absolute honour to offer this gift to a friend- but thinking about what it might mean.
It's an incredibly opportunity to make someone happy. To show my disdain for a law that prevents these two people, very much in love, from adopting a child. An opportunity to create a truly special bond between my friend and I. Between this child and I.
It's also an opportunity for disaster. I read a story where one such couple died and the donor, my age, was left with his biological child. There are stories of friendships disintegrating under the stress. What if we fundamentally disagree on some aspect of parenting? Could I give up that responsibility? Could I really let someone else make major decisions for a child that I know is, in some sense, my own?
It's a thrilling, terrifying prospect. I'm touched, and excited, and cautious.
I may become a father.