A Morning
Years later and I was gone; our once-bright flame could not have been farther from me. He was married, happy; children, maybe two. He was very far indeed. But in some ways, I could still feel it, the closeness.
I remembered I was always so terrible at loving. I was selfish, I was stubborn. I was fearful and full of hurt and hate; bitterness and insecurity. But he had loved me despite.
I remembered the time that we had sat, teary-eyed and crossed legged in the kitchen. How the tile felt icy and unforgiving beneath me; my limbs stiff from the ache and stillness. I remember how I had tried to leave but somehow he had kept me there. Kept not with such brute physical prohibition that had wrecked me in the past, but rather by fascination at the quiet softness of his loving. So softly, he had loved me, with passionate selflessness and fierce protection that had held me captivated even when I didn’t want to be. He had taught me how to love.
That’s why when he walked into the little cafe that morning, bright and brunette, I knew immediately that it was him, once again, after such a long time. I knew even before he spoke and I heard the voice; before he turned and I caught my breath because I could never have mistaken those eyes and that mouth. I knew that face, still beautiful despite its aging. I knew it well like my way around a kiss. Troubled with movement, excitement; history, and curiosity.
And I remembered everything.
I remembered I was always so terrible at loving. I was selfish, I was stubborn. I was fearful and full of hurt and hate; bitterness and insecurity. But he had loved me despite.
I remembered the time that we had sat, teary-eyed and crossed legged in the kitchen. How the tile felt icy and unforgiving beneath me; my limbs stiff from the ache and stillness. I remember how I had tried to leave but somehow he had kept me there. Kept not with such brute physical prohibition that had wrecked me in the past, but rather by fascination at the quiet softness of his loving. So softly, he had loved me, with passionate selflessness and fierce protection that had held me captivated even when I didn’t want to be. He had taught me how to love.
The kitchen, the floor, the words that fell from his effervescent mouth, “Your hurting doesn’t scare me.” That was the night I had realized that I was far more than the product of trauma. I had realized I was far more than the hurt that haunted my childhood, more than the bitterness that plagued me after. I became more than just a broken story; I became whole in the midst of his soft, soft love.
And I cried. Sloppy and wet, I had fallen into his arms and told him all. Of my father and the way he once hit. Of my mother and the way she died drunk.
He had listened and cried and held me in that love of his. And I had known with such clarity that everything was okay.
Then it was out and I was done, and I had realized that it had never been him that had feared my pain. It had always been I that was scared of such pain that would make me unlovable. But there in the midst of wet cheeks and soft love, I realized that I was no longer defined by it.
So I remembered it all that morning when I saw him again. And if this was a love story, I would tell you that we locked eyes and he remembered everything too. I would tell you that we talked again and forgot why we ever left. I would tell you that his wife and kids had left and gone; that he was okay, yes okay, that he was happy and lovely and hopeful. I would tell you that we walked out with fingers entangled, that we smiled as we rekindled something that once had burned so brightly. I would tell you that we laughed and cried and we danced like we once did; that we spent a night under darkness making up for lost time. I would tell you that it was worth it, all the pain and confusion, our heartache and goodbyes.
But this is no brilliant love story and our hearts were not so filled with merriness and second chances. So it was all I could do to simply clutch my old necklace and hold back old emotion as I watched him turn to leave and walk right back out the door.
And I cried. Sloppy and wet, I had fallen into his arms and told him all. Of my father and the way he once hit. Of my mother and the way she died drunk.
He had listened and cried and held me in that love of his. And I had known with such clarity that everything was okay.
Then it was out and I was done, and I had realized that it had never been him that had feared my pain. It had always been I that was scared of such pain that would make me unlovable. But there in the midst of wet cheeks and soft love, I realized that I was no longer defined by it.
So I remembered it all that morning when I saw him again. And if this was a love story, I would tell you that we locked eyes and he remembered everything too. I would tell you that we talked again and forgot why we ever left. I would tell you that his wife and kids had left and gone; that he was okay, yes okay, that he was happy and lovely and hopeful. I would tell you that we walked out with fingers entangled, that we smiled as we rekindled something that once had burned so brightly. I would tell you that we laughed and cried and we danced like we once did; that we spent a night under darkness making up for lost time. I would tell you that it was worth it, all the pain and confusion, our heartache and goodbyes.
But this is no brilliant love story and our hearts were not so filled with merriness and second chances. So it was all I could do to simply clutch my old necklace and hold back old emotion as I watched him turn to leave and walk right back out the door.
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