Page 99 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

Meanings and purpose can change as one creates. If a person is exceptionally prolific with their creating, their life purpose and meaning may change dozens of times throughout their life.

The happiest people learn to go along with those changes. Lean into them. And keep creating. Keep living. Keep believing in possibility.

Finding myself standing on the sidewalk at the edge of the street in front of the two-story Craftsman-style home, I hugged my bundle to my chest. Pulled my arms tightly around it to protect it from the mist that was still sputtering lazily from the sky. Minneapolis loved its gloom—and it had grown on me over the years. Gloomy doesn’t have to be bad.

It gives the sunny, warm days meaning. And the warmth of our closest star gives the gloominess meaning, too. Though, like life and death, they are not opposites. Opposites are rare.

Smiling, I strolled up the walkway towards the house.

Part Four

Here You Come Again

Why’d You Come in Here Lookin’ Like That?

“Are…are you drunk?”

Pounding at my front door in the late evening hours was something to which I was unaccustomed—especially in America. Maybe it wouldn’t have seemed so odd at my apartment in Montreal since I hadn’t lived in the best of neighborhoods. But The Regal Building, my beautiful high-rise apartment, didn’t have many troublemakers. Most of the people who lived there were middle-aged or had families. Peace and quiet was the unspoken rule, and those going against it were socially shunned. At least for a few days. Until amends were made.

So far, I’d managed to avoid upsetting my neighbors with the sounds from my television or music. None of the friends I had invited over on Friday evenings after work were disrespectful to my home or the building’s residents. I always made sure to let my front door shut gently and I never slammed things in my apartment. Not that I was prone to such behaviors—aside from occasionally kicking a knife across the kitchen out of frustration. One evening, early in autumn, it looked as though my neighbors’ belief that I was boring would change.

“You are drunk,” I said. “Jésus Christ.”

“Oh,” Peter clutched the doorframe with one hand as his feet struggled to keep him upright, “so now we’re just taking the lord’s name in vain all willy nilly?”

He actually hiccupped. His feet did a little dance and it seemed as though Peter would tip over right there at my threshold. Somehow, his feet managed to find purchase, and his hand gripping the doorframe kept him upright.

“You’ll go to hell for that, you know,” he said, laughing.

After I had walked out of our home, Peter had texted me dozens of times a day. At least for the first few months. He never stopped completely, though. He started texting five or six times a day. Then he was texting when he woke up in the morning and before he went to bed each night. He had been following that routine for months, obviously still upset, but trying to give me space. I had appreciated it.

I still had not figured out everything in my head, so giving me time to do that had been kind of him.

Showing up drunk on my doorstep when it was nearly bedtime was something I did not appreciate. He hadn’t even texted or called first to indicate he had such a dumb idea in mind. It also occurred to me that I had never seen Peter drunk. Not really drunk. As he was as he stood there and held onto the doorframe like it was his only lifeline.

Sighing, I leaned against the door and said, “What are you doing here, Peter?”

“I am here…to bring you home,” he said resolutely, his mouth setting sternly.

“Is that so?” I asked. “You didn’t drive, did you?”

“I took an Uber. Because I am drunk. Not dumb.”

He wobbled precariously.

Peter’s attempt at pronouncing “Uber” while drunk was admirable but hilarious. Well, it would have been if he hadn’t been causing a scene.

“You should not have gotten out in your condition, Peter,” I said. “You could have gotten hurt. Or hurt someone else.”

“Aw,” Peter pretended to swoon, nearly toppling over in the process, “Enzo cares if I’m hurt. My husband—my husband—still gives a shit. Did everyone hear that?”

I shushed him. “They will if you don’t keep your voice down.”

“I don’t give a fu—”

Across the hall, I heard my neighbor unlocking their door. I grabbed a fist full of the front of Peter’s shirt and pulled him into my apartment. Quickly, yet quietly, I shut the door. Fortunately, I had kept my grip on Peter’s shirt, because when I turned to him after the door was securely shut, he was wobbling on his feet, trying to find his balance.

I waited until I was sure he wouldn’t topple over, then let go of his shirt.