But Mine Own Vineyards I Have Not Kept

This is the story of how I came back.

Early in August, I flew East. My first night home I drove into the city, seeing its skyline in full panorama. That night, in Harlem, I sobbed until I slept. I was home, but my heart was not with me. Late in September, I grieved a quieter kind of grief. I fell in love in California. Now that that was over, I walked around the city determined to pay attention. The mornings were the hardest, waking up short of breath with sorrow's heavy hand pressing down on my chest.

The nights were hard too, but, in a different way. That's when the anger came in reckless storms. There was no stopping the anger, though all my reason told me that to forgive was to love, and I wanted to be able to love. I never cried after the first night. I only felt weak. All my love, like blood, had drained out of me. The nights went long with rage, cycling through the same reasons why everything had gone wrong. After the rage came the longing, missing someone who could recognize me. Then loss, and anger again that I had lost. This is how it always went.

One night, tired and scared that this was how it was always going to be, I turned to him. 'Papa,' (this is what I always call him), 'I need you to take me somewhere where I can be healthy again. Somewhere I can love you again. I have been tired for such a long time.' His reply was a month long. There were pictures of flowers, rows of vineyards, promises of rest, and finally he sang to me from the Song of all songs. "They made me the keeper of vineyards; but mine own vineyard I have not kept."

And from there we went, to tend to the vines together. To catch the foxes that kept my lover and I away. To forgive, to love again.