Photo courtesy of Jon Pitts-Wiley

If I draw water from the well of woman,
Will their stories serve my soul?

"The Well of Woman," by Ricardo Pitts-Wiley

Michelle got up and changed the guard.

As The Feath came into the audience following a short program done to introduce a speaker at the theatre, Michelle matter of factly got up and gave her the seat next to me, taking a chair behind it. This may be the moment I understood who The Feath was.

To understand why such a moment is profound, you have to understand who Michelle is. Michelle was my first love; the first person who truly captivated me. Forget the fact that I met her while trying to holler at another girl; she put a spell on me that has, to this day, put Norah Jones' first CD on the Unlistenable List (you know the Unlistenable List).

I loved her passionately, but place in life and being a knucklehead disrupted what I thought were ever-after plans. She was considering career options while I was still figuring out which lecture hall was which, so I allowed flattery and youth to do their work; I let the foolhardy notion that there was greener grass spoil what I thought would be forever. I spoiled what I thought would be forever.

And like that, I was without her.

Life carried on and as I carried on, I carried her with me.

I wasn't foolish enough to think there would be a possible rekindling; that maybe when the time was right things would be different. Some bridges don't get unbroke.

Still, we made an effort, however difficult, to be friends. After trudging through the cold realization of what friendship is after the love has changed, we actually became...friends. (And yes: That cold realization did, in fact, involve a breakdown in the stockroom of the Gap that would have caused even Lenny Williams to tell me to pull myself together). And fortunately, we lucked out. We transitioned into friendship and she remained a part of my family, but in a slightly different way. My parents didn't call her every once in a while in the hopes that we'd get back together; they called because she was one of theirs and they loved her. Michelle went from a girlfriend to a girl <space> friend. And a good one; a confidante who took the time to care because she loved me, not because she was in love with me.

But a hook remained: I wanted Michelle to be proud of me. Call it a melange of guilt and respect or the petty desire to stand and say, "See, I'm much better than I was before!" but I craved it. It felt to me like unfinished business between us. I wanted her to see that I was worth the trouble, that I had grown into something more than I had been. I wanted to show her that the circle she'd begun could come full.

Which brings us back to the seat.

You see, Michelle holds a certain place of respect in my heart. Even as I write this now, I can say there is an extremely short list of people for whom she must relinquish a seat (and I'm related to all but a few). Again, this isn't born of being my girl; it's born of being my homegirl. At the point at which she met The Feath—which was, in fact, that same evening—the seat next to me was still not one she had to give up; relative to who they were and who they were to me at the time, the seat was Michelle's.

But she got up.

This wasn't reflex—it wasn't that jerky standing that takes place when a person is sitting somewhere they know they shouldn't. This wasn't begrudging courtesy, because she knew she didn't need to extend it. Knowing the two women as I do, I doubt her remaining seated would have seemed rude or somehow defiant. Had The Feath scooted by and occupied the seat to my left, I'd likely have thought little of it. Michelle seated next to me was a matter of history, not ownership.

But she got up. With her typical understated grace, the woman who'd set the bar eased into another row. This is your seat. I know who you are.

It was staggering because it lacked drama; it was memorable in that it was mundane. Natural. What should have happened. A seat being filled by its rightful owner.

Michelle got up and the guard changed. Saying nothing, she'd said everything.

For her, it was probably nothing. For me, it was a finishing of business. Our circle had come full.

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