This Weather's Bringing It All Back Again

How much do people really change? When my friends run out of patience with the Raf situation (bless their hearts), they inevitably turn to the phrase "people change" as a conclusion, and understandably so. I find myself asking the same questions over and over again - so much so that my poor roommate Lex has memorized the answers in spite of his most valiant efforts to constantly redeploy his empathy.

SaN: Do you think he'll ever write me again?
Lex: Maybe. Eventually.
SaN: Do you think he hates me?
Lex: No. I think he's afraid of the impact you have on his life.
SaN: How can he do this? How can almost a decade of friendship not matter to him?
Lex: It does matter to him. He's just trying to get by in his own world and you were collateral damage. He had to make a choice.

When we are faced with a situation in which another human being inexplicably betrays the trust created by a close bond, we are left feeling blindsided - wondering how we couldn't see such a thing coming. As blissfully uncomplicated as men can sometimes be, Raf's complexity has baffled me from day one.

I suppose the irony of this blasted situation is that for the longest time, it was Raf who had the stronger feelings for me as opposed to vice versa. Now, in my twenties, I am left feeling like I ran out of time to reciprocate and as a result am hemorrhaging my emotions into the vacuum left by his departure. I berate myself often:

- Did I not take his feelings seriously enough?
- Was I not expressive enough with my feelings?
- Was I so vain that I thought his adoration would last forever?
- Did I ever really think that we could make it work, or did I just like the attention?
- Did I lead him on?
- Did I do enough to let him know he was important to me?
- Did I drive him toward a placeholder instead of giving him the freedom to find someone he really loves? (More on this later)

There's a great song called Hold You Down by a band named JUMP. Their discovery is about the only good thing my psychotic ex Ryan ever contributed to my life. That, and the ability to definitively tell the assholes from the good guys for the rest of eternity.

The lyrics discuss the effects of paradigm shift (seeing the same issue from a different perspective).

Was I watching over you?
Or watching you fall apart?
Did I lend a hand to hold you down?
Or just a hand to hold?
Did I pull the wool over your eyes?
Or keep you from the cold?
In every look upon your face
There was an element of grace
Did I read between the lines?
Or erase...?

The snippet above pretty much describes the constant state of questioning in which I find myself - did I do good or evil in my friendship with Raf? Did I damage him with uncertainty? Did he finally just decide to cut his losses and exit with what dignity he had left?

Throughout our friendship I always had long-term boyfriends while Raf bounced around from one 3-month stint to the next. I would consistently get emails that extolled the virtues of one girl only to receive a follow-up declaring that it was over. He was restless, nomadic, and victim to a self-described incompleteness. This sense of purposelessness, coupled with his family's reticence to accept his desired vocation, made for quite the quarter-life crisis as we headed into the new millennium, now firmly bound to each other by unwavering loyalty and implicit understanding.

Photography was Raf's escape from the world's negativity. It was the one place where he could feel at peace and, most importantly, be good at something. To this day I am so proud and grateful to have been part of the force that compelled this kind of talent to firmly anchor his proverbial stake in the ground and tell his father he was going to follow his passion. (See below)

Back in the day we used to talk about the kind of photographic subjects Raf would pursue if given the chance. His answer was always the same: people. Ironically, what he has ended up specializing in is landscape photography. Why is this ironic, you say...?

...time for another Flashback.

It's a good thing Raf has shaved his head this year, or he wouldn't be able to strap on the helmet he's just been handed. I almost didn't recognize him coming down the long gravel driveway a week ago and might have walked clear past him had he not called my name from 50 feet away and started running toward me the instant my Keds-clad feet had hit the dirt.

In the meantime, we're being informed of the safety procedures of whitewater rafting. As I'm trying to get Raf's attention from across the gazebo, he motions sternly for me to pay attention to the woman explaining what to do in the event of a man-overboard situation. "On your back, feet up and pointed downstream, grab the closest possible oar, make sure you get pulled into the raft on your stomach, not your back. DO NOT STAND UP IN THE CURRENT." Check, check, check. Got it.

We are dismissed, and I strap myself into a damp life jacket. This is going to be awesome. I clamber into an eight-person inflatable raft with Raf at the helm. As we make our way down the first couple of Class II rapids I feel an icy splash at my back. I look behind me to see Raf holding the neon orange bail bucket and sporting an I-dare-you-to-retaliate grin. I glower at him and vow revenge. My opportunity strikes quickly - at the next eddy I "accidentally" over-paddle and catch him fully in the face with my backsplash. Excellent! We continue down the river, laughing and dousing each other in the freezing water, which is a welcome repast from the afternoon heat. The sun catches Raf's eyes and they prism into an array of hidden colors. He flashes me a smile that hangs in the space between mischief and tenderness.

Suddenly his face turns to horror as I'm flying through the air. I crash into the water and my world goes into slow motion.

My mouth is full of water. My body feels paralyzed. Where am I? My head goes under but the life jacket buoys me back up to the surface of the raging water. My limbs are numb from the cold. I am floating above myself in third person, compelling myself to swim. "Closest oar...downstream..." Adrenaline ordered by my brain finally reaches my body and my feet shoot up out of the water. Do not stand up, SaN, or the current will take you down and drown you. I spot the yellow raft and starting swimming for what seems like miles. An oar touches my fingertips. Raf. I latch on and let him pull me toward the raft. Then my mind goes numb. I emerge from my brief trance to Raf shouting my name. I don't understand what he wants. My hands have no feeling in them. I look down at my whitened knuckles. Why can't I move? Raf kneels over the edge of the raft, and I see his lips form the word "oar" over and over again. My mind has trouble parsing his words. What does he want me to do? His hands grab my life jacket and pull me toward him. "LET.GO.OF.THE.OAR!" I comply, and with one heave he has me back in the raft, soaked and shivering.

Raf: You alright, then?
SaN: Mmm-hmm
Raf: You eejit - don't scare me like that!
SaN: (...)

(...)

He was scared?

It's official: ravenous butterflies have set up shop and are making a meal out of my innards.

Later, as we browse the gift shop and flip through the souvenir photos of our raft, I spot a photography book. I flip it open and become engrossed in the images. Over my shoulder I hear a snort of derision. "Landscapes." He's back to being himself. "I like them", I tell him. Raf walks off and becomes interested in something else, but I can't take my eyes off the book.

On my birthday that year I get a package postmarked eight weeks earlier from halfway around the world. I open it and start laughing. Landscapes.

As the afternoon turns to dusk we walk back to the bus, still damp from the water but no longer shivering. Raf and I break into a run, racing each other to the parking lot. About halfway there we stop and look at each other for no good reason. He motions in the low sun and I give my silent assent.

I jump on his back and drape my arms around his shoulders.

We don't care who's watching anymore.