We burn the fields and forests to encourage new growth. These are literally called “prescribed burns” or “controlled burns“:
“Controlled burning stimulates the germination of some desirable forest trees, and reveals soil mineral layers which increases seedling vitality, thus renewing the forest.”
That was the thing I desperately needed yesterday, to burn the forest.
I ran across a tumblr post (one I can’t find now to link, which is probably for the best) of a college junior, a boy with writing so keen and tender that I burst into tears at his “letter to the next man”, i.e. the next boyfriend of his ex.
But the floodgates were open. I had to get it out of me, so I started writing about how angry and sad I am.
And I came to a realization, one I’m not ashamed to share now that I’ve processed it: I had an enormously strong and instant connection with Jack Daniels, I still miss his voice and laugh and wit.
But I fell in love with Gerrard. I know it sounds completely mental, for only having been a week. I know how it sounds. I know. But I can’t deny what happened.
And I think I did deny the strength of my feelings for two weeks and just shoved them down, all the delicate little filaments of the memories and touches and conversations, because I was so very loath to admit to it:
That me of all people — someone most people would put on a top-5 list for resilience, pragmatism, emotional control — that I somehow fell so hard for a boy I’d known just a few days. I have played with men like a cat with a wounded mouse since I was 13 years old; I don’t even fall in like in a week. I just didn’t want to accept it — that either this was unique or I am different now.
And I wrote it down; and I apologized to the person I’d been in the middle of a conversation with when I dropped the match. And I washed my face and I went out and had dinner. I slept hard last night.
And it hurts so much less today. Because now it’s not a festering wound that I’m ignoring, hoping it will just disappear while the infection simmers. Today, it’s clean and debrided. It’s been scraped out and cauterized, and it’s sore. But it’s healing.
And the one good thing that has been true all my life about boys: easy come, easy go. Gerrard will leave a mark (the peak experiences always do), but today I don’t miss him. In a month, my days will go by with no thought of him. By summer, I’ll have forgotten his face.
And today, I’m excited about Harry Potter. I’m seeing the possibilities now, instead of just “all the ways he isn’t Gerrard or Jack.” He’s Harry, and maybe he’s my boy. There is a tiny seedling sprouting from the ash, and only time will tell.