Bittersweet

It's one o'clock in the morning. I'm sitting, stretched out on the couch, under my thick fleece blanket. It's been a fairly good week. After my long weekend self-pitying episode, I evened out for the work week. I'm just now trying to get re-accustomed to living by myself again, after a host of house-guests (and my sweetie's six-week visit). Sometimes, things pop up around the house that herald my loneliness. On the fridge, in my clutter of magnetic poetry tiles, lines created by friends jolt me into nostalgia: “Every leaf protects a nation” is from a friend who has left town pretty much permanently. (I say “pretty much” because life occasionally throws serendipitous curve-balls my way.) She is a someone with whom I had connected quickly, one of those people who somehow saw my sadness through the masks I donned. On one of our last walks before she left, I had expressed how heartbreaking it was to me that so many of my friends had moved away, a natural part of living here in Inuvik. She corrected me, saying that it was bittersweet. Yes, it's bittersweet: I'm better for having met her, for having taken those walks with her, for having vented my frustrations and sorrows, for having listened to her stories.

There's a dog that likes to walk me to and from work. He would magically appear out of nowhere, and be by my side or a few paces behind. I have no idea where he comes from or where he lives. He is clearly a well-loved animal, and appears well taken care of. I see him at least once a day, either in the morning, at lunch hour, or after work. I'm always a bit sad to leave him and go inside. He would glance at me with those piercing blue eyes, eyes that have branded into my permanent memory. I like to think of him as my dog, my protector, a being that sensed my loneliness so we could be lonely together. And that's bittersweet too.