I’ve written about my partner, Larissa, intermittently here at Rock & Hawk.
We went to Monhegan, but I didn’t bring my telephoto bird lens.
It’s heavy, and I wanted my shorter lens so I could sneak pictures of Larissa hiking and beachcombing instead.
A month later, we took a cruise to see Atlantic Puffins. Afterward, we visited the Maine Botanical Gardens.
We retired to a small A-frame.
At Sherman’s bookstore, I bought a book about birds—but only after pausing at Robin Wall Kimmerer’s The Serviceberry.
Larissa noticed, bought The Serviceberry, and later gave it to me as a gift.
I first wrote about Larissa at Rock & Hawk in October 2023, just after I met her. Months later, she told me she’d found my Substack.
Shit. She’ll know I wrote about her.
I’d written about how highly I thought of an unnamed person. Contextually, it was clearly her, so I edited it just in case. Years later, I’m not afraid to name her.
Rock & Hawk isn’t just about birds; it’s about my life and the role birds play in it. I can’t write about my life without writing about Larissa—and she’s been there for many birds. When I tell Larissa what she means to me, I might get: “Feels like a cheesy line you’ve used before.”
A good name melts me—like Larissa’s. She’s named after the character in Pasternak’s Dr. Zhivago. A Russian literature namesake.
Larissa is profoundly generous. More often than not, there’s a Pyrex container of her mac’n’cheese (or four) in my fridge.
A crafty upcycler, beachcomber, and repurposer, Larissa refurbished two small upholstered chairs for me. She found them, dump-bound, but saw potential. I keep them at my tiny excuse for a dinner table. Larissa is there even when she’s not.
Larissa and I have a pretty good origin story. People react:
I think I’ve seen a movie like that.
Does she still bill you?
Such a ‘you’ way to meet a girlfriend.
Larissa was my speech therapist. I started as her patient in October 2023 and stayed her patient until summer 2024.
Her first impression of me was my medical chart. Larissa has worked with TBI patients her whole career. What she expected after seeing my chart didn’t align with the version of me she saw. She was worried the hospital wouldn’t be able to provide the care I’d need. “I thought you were going to need a specialized brain injury program.” I’m lucky that I didn’t—for lots of reasons, one being it meant time with Larissa.
My first impressions were:
She might be younger than me.
She brings a no-nonsense approach.
I like her.
Regarding number one, Larissa is a few years older but I have more gray hair.
Regarding her aversion to nonsense: I used to aggressively clear my throat every thirty seconds. I thought it helped. Wrong. Throat-clearing harms vocal folds. Minutes into our first appointment, after a throat-clear, Larissa plainly said: “Stop doing that. Sniff and swallow.”
Regarding number three, I talked about Larissa to anyone who would listen.
Despite the inconsistency between me and my medical chart, my TBI didn’t take long to make itself known. TBI sends anxiety through the roof. Mine is no exception, and it was already high. After putting it in my calendar wrong, I was half an hour late to our second appointment. I ran into her office—that’s how badly I wanted to see Larissa.
I kept seeing her. We had flirtatious exchanges. I tried a challenging speech exercise and flubbed it.
“Guess I got cocky.”
“You? Cocky? Never.”
She knew I liked birds. We practiced challenging species names. Pileated Woodpecker, Double-crested Cormorant, Sharp-shinned Hawk. More than once she brought up the Steller’s Sea Eagle that showed up in Maine when she lived there—world’s burliest eagle, 5,000 miles from home.
During one appointment, I said I wanted to show her some trails. Not quite a date, but not not a date. She didn’t say no, but couldn’t say yes. Ethics rules prohibit providers from dating patients.
Larissa told me I didn’t really need speech therapy anymore, a subtle hint I should ask to be discharged.
My worry: If I get discharged, what if I never see her again?
My options:
Be her patient forever.
Sack up and ask her out.
Weeks later, I asked if she’d still like to go for that walk. Harmless, a walk—not a date, but maybe sort of. She again explained that I’d have to be discharged and could never seek speech therapy with her again. I found some balls:
“Then discharge me right now.”
It’s not that simple when you’ve been a patient for so long. We had to schedule one more appointment to redo vocal function tests and compare them to October 2023. We followed every ethical guideline. I was discharged and could never be her patient again. My only regret is taking as long as I did.
Early one Sunday, we met at a trail I’d spoken highly of. There was a coffee shop nearby. I asked if she’d like to go. We went—still not necessarily a date, but closer.
My TBI anxiety and overwhelm made themselves known when it came time to pay.
Hurry up and get your wallet so she knows this is kind of a date!
I rushed and fumbled my card putting it in the chip reader. Larissa knew I liked her and chalked it up to nerves, not my brain injury.
We met for another walk. I planned to ask her on an actual date, no more cowardly ambiguity. Nervous, I was an hour early for that second walk and meandered the trails with my camera.
A Decorated Owlet rested on a leaf.
A Black-and-white Warbler had a snack.
Larissa arrived. I greeted her reservedly, not to seem too excited. I talked about ferns as we walked.
That’s Bracken. My least favorite. That’s Hay-scented. New York and Hay-scented look similar in some ways, but New York tapers to both ends—widest in the middle. Hay-scented is triangular. The lowest pinnae are broadest. On New York, the lowest pinnae are shorter.
My favorite fern looks cartoonish, ballooned. Sensitive fern, Onoclea sensibilis—fun to say. We won’t see it on this trail. It doesn’t look sensitive, but it’s sensitive to frost.
When I’m nervous, I talk. Birds, ferns, books. 2nd gen versus 3rd gen Tacomas.
I talk about what I loved about my 2012, a 2nd gen, before I switched to Ford. I pivot to Robinson Jeffers’ “inhumanism,” Jim Harrison, the mechanics of a fly cast.
Once I get going, I go.
Larissa pointed out a Pearl Crescent butterfly as we strolled. She’d just gotten new binoculars; an Osprey flew overhead with a fish.
After our walk, I asked her out. I suggested we go to a restaurant to “share a meal.”
Larissa is fiercely independent. I imagined any phrase close to “take you out” would be met with chagrin. The word “out” was—well, out. I imagined her saying, I’m nobody’s to “take” anywhere! All that matters is she said yes.
The “Comedy” in “Romantic Comedy”
On our first actual date, we went to dinner at a restaurant adjacent to more trails. TBI anxiety manifested again. I rushed inside without holding the door. She’s never let me live it down. For months after, I made a point of atoning. I held every door, and not just for her—for every possible person who’d want to enter or exit a building after I did.
After our shared meal, we walked the abutting trails. We’re an ambulatory couple. There was a deer and so many Monarch butterflies—moths too, and Painted Ladies.
Monarchs remind me of her, and her of me. A card she gave me when I started law school was of a Monarch.
Dinner and Monarchs aside, I still had not kissed her. My friends have given me endless shit for this, as has she, but I decided to put delicate romance to the side.
Does she still just see me as a patient? Is she doing this because she feels bad?
I told her plainly, about as smooth as a spoonful of Teddie’s Super Chunky:
“With the butterflies and everything, I’d feel remiss if I didn’t kiss you.”
…Remiss? Come on. In that context?
She didn’t react at first. Can you blame her? Imagine some guy you’ve known primarily as a patient finally gets the balls to ask you out, then plainly vocalizes his desire to kiss you—using the word “remiss,” because of…butterflies?
I said a version of the same thing to her again, as if the first time wasn’t bad enough. What does it matter now? We kissed. My indelicate directness probably killed any butterflies in Larissa’s stomach, but there were butterflies all around us.
Afterward I asked, to be certain, that she was in fact single. She was, and told the story of how she came to be where and how she was. Tough seasons in each of our lives brought us together—two chains of unfortunate events fortunately converged. On another woodland walk, Larissa noted that we are equally broken in different ways.
We were a couple in every way but name for a while. Reality and timing can be a pain. With law school, we weren’t sure how much bandwidth I’d have for a relationship—and we’d have to navigate challenges of distance, at least for a semester.
We put our heads in the sand and dated without calling it dating. Making it real would make our challenges real. You can only eat meals someone cooked for you, buy them flowers, give them framed prints of photos you took, and exchange letters so many times before it’s real.
To me, it was always real—even before it really was. I fall hard; I fall fast. Larissa takes a lot longer and proceeds with caution.
The “Romantic” in “Romantic Comedy”
I knew we were a couple, and I loved Larissa. I’d been mustering the gumption to tell her.
As I attempted to say it in the A-frame after the puffin cruise, she wasn’t ready to hear it. Larissa knew what I was about to say and put her hand over my mouth so I couldn’t. Her visceral reaction wasn’t what I expected—though, in hindsight, it makes sense. There’s never a perfect moment to tell someone you love them. The important thing is that you tell them. On a later walk in southern New Hampshire, I did.
I write Larissa poems. Before we were a couple, I’d still write them for her. Larissa showed one to a friend. “That guy loves you.”
I did, but I was afraid of scaring her off—I wouldn’t have dreamt of telling her at that point. This was all very nascent still. Knowing how Larissa is, I overcorrected when she told me what her friend said. A version of don’t be ridiculous, to mask the truth.
When I was her patient, Larissa asked what my goals were. I wanted to sound better.
That was the end of 2023. Years later, my goals are about building a life—one I’ll write about, a life I’m already writing about.
Whether it’s Monarchs over a trail or a puffin cruise, Larissa is there for all of it.
Larissa gave me my voice back. She made me feel like myself, and good about myself. Voice is not just about projection and articulation, but about having a life worth talking about—one to use your voice for, and a person to share that life with.
I get to share mine with Larissa.
I would be remiss, James, if I didn't express how much I enjoyed every word of this. Larissa is blessed to have found such a deep-feeling, expressive man -- and one that loves her. Woven with all the magnificent flora and fauna, it is a sweet, sweet, story. I am happy for you both.
Gorgeous and gorgeously paced as a piece of writing, and well woven with the images. I’m so happy for you both.