In my local off-licence I found a Riesling with the same name as the first friend I ever had.
The name is rather odd, for a boy and for a wine.
I'm drinking it with morbid curiosity and find myself missing him. I think I was seven years old the last time I spoke to him. I attended his funeral about ten years ago.
If I Had Three Lives
After “Melbourne” by the Whitlams
by Sarah Russell
If I had three lives, I’d marry you in two.
The other? Perhaps that life over there
at Starbucks, sitting alone, writing — a memoir,
maybe a novel or this poem. No kids, probably,
a small apartment with a view of the river,
and books — lots of books, and time to read.
Friends to laugh with, and a man sometimes,
for a weekend, to remember what skin feels like
when it’s alive. I’d be thinner in that life, vegan,
practice yoga. I’d go to art films, farmers markets,
drink martinis in swingy skirts and big jewelry.
I’d vacation on the Maine coast and wear a flannel shirt
weekend guy left behind, loving the smell of sweat
and aftershave more than I did him. I’d walk the beach
at sunrise, find perfect shell spirals and study pockmarks
water makes in sand. And I’d wonder sometimes
if I’d ever find you.
_____
Note from me: Love this poem because I'm kind of living this third life.
Living in a community, with idealists. It was autumn in Sweden.
I was nineteen and on the way to discovering what was perhaps my life calling - comforting, encouraging, praying - and at the same time feeling vulnerable and naive like a child. I discovered playfulness, unexpected physical strength, the importance of letting myself get close to others - physically, mentally, spiritually. I cried like I'd never cried before and realised how little I knew myself.
I had just left my childhood home, thinking I was independent and grown-up. But I was a bambi-eyed, scrawny teenager, weak and unaware of how much others protected me, even as I gradually learned how to look after myself. Perhaps it's the same for everyone at that age.
I grew like a flower during that chilly autumn, safe among people who loved genuinely and warmly. It was an environment I craved - and crave still, perhaps. Later I would realise how isolation and too much indepence always make me sink into apathy and despair.
It was a community of Christian missionaries, and some of the things we talked about seem odd now - not dangerously so, just odd. Like the sinfulness of pride, confessing sins to each other, dealing with the devil, prophesying. But I learned to be open and loving, accept differences, overcome brokenness, speak English, and let myself be loved by others when I least expect it.
Even with the cynicism that has come with the years, I can't seem to lose my faith in God, genuine love, hope.
It's a city of olives and oranges, of a thousand swifts darting around in the sky. The Arabic coffee is soot black and spicy, the sangría joyfully juicy. The April sun is delightful, the wine comes with tapas of tabbouleh or Manchego cheese or, obviously, olives.
We explore an immense cathedral, the burial chapel of monarchs, the heavenly gardens of the long-vanished Moors. We rest among roses, light-headed from their scent and the whispers of marble and fountains.
Feeling a little faint, I stand in front of the sarcophagi of legendary Isabella and Ferdinand. I shudder with fear and excitement when we get lost among the poorly lit alleys of the Sacromonte after dark, long after the tourists have left for the flamenco shows and the restaurants. Shadows are dark, dogs are barking in the distance, footsteps echo in the deserted, winding streets. Danger and the ghosts of gypsies stir the cooling air.
The red castle on the hill and the snow-covered Sierra Nevada summits float over us like a fata morgana. Seven hours is spent exploring the castle - we are, by now, seasoned castle explorers who won't leave any dungeon or turret unseen.
Europe has too many works of art and my head will soon explode. Andalusia is a cauldron of emotions, bullfights and scorching heat. And chilled, white almond soup in the shade is a wonder as great as the Alhambra itself.
No matter how wondrous the place I visit, I very rarely return. How could I, when there are so many wondrous places still unexplored? The sadness of leaving a place like Granada, a fairytale of spices and stories hidden in the mountains, knowing I'll never return .... adds to the magic.
I bury myself in Washington Irving's Tales of the Alhambra for days afterwards, refusing to let go.