Montini: The first day of fall in Arizona feels like ... love

This time, I was not convinced she would come back to me.

But she did.

She actually did.

I stepped outside early this morning to fetch the newspaper and there she was.

She had left me sometime in late May, or perhaps it was early June. I’m uncertain about the exact date because I didn’t want to believe she’d gone.

Maybe she just went on a day trip, I thought. She’s only taking a little break.

There were signs it was more serious than that, of course. There always are signs. A slight sense of unease. A hint of discomfort in the air. The temperature fluctuating in a way that doesn’t happen in more stable relationships. Relationships that last.

Ours, I’m afraid, never lasts.

She left me before, and I rationalized it

This has happened before. Her leaving. We are going along fine, or so it seems to me. We’re happy. At least I am.

Everything seems perfect at first, but after a number of months it becomes clear that we are on two different paths.

Me wanting something permanent; her wanting to move on.

I wouldn’t call it breaking up, exactly. What are some of the clichés people tell one another?

I could use some time to myself.

Or, I need some space.

Or, I’m not ready to commit.

Or – worst of all – it’s not you, it’s me.

This last time, like every other time, I sensed a change in the atmosphere. I felt her absence. I hoped I was imagining things. But I wasn’t. One day passed. Then another. And then another. And I knew it wasn’t a little break.

She’d gone. Again.

Time passed. Certainty faded. Then this

It takes a while when that happens, but I adjust. It’s what we do. We are not so foolish as to believe that good things last forever. As the poet Yeats says, “Everything that’s lovely is but a brief, dreamy kind delight.”

Besides, in my heart of hearts, I knew she would return.

At least I thought I knew.

Time passed and, I’ll admit, my certainty faded.

As much as we would like there to be an equilibrium to our commitment, it is never so. One of us always needs the other just a little more. Just a little less.

One of us always has an eye on something new and different while the other is holding fast to things as they are.

It’s obvious where I stand, I suppose.

The uncertain one. The needy one. The one who pretended for a time that she had not really left and then convinced himself she might never come back.

But she did.

She actually did.

I stepped outside early this morning to fetch the newspaper from the driveway and there she was:

Autumn.

EJ Montini is a columnist for The Arizona Republic and azcentral.

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