I love being me even though sometimes I'm still a stranger.
Posted 05 October 2012 - 09:47 PM
You learned English so quickly, so easily and I envied that. You never quite lost your accent but it was strangely delightful to hear, like new versions of old songs. “Say refrigerator,” I would tease and we would laugh at the sound of it slipping clumsily from your lips. Somehow, we never forgot how to laugh and play. It wasn’t a demand brought on by children, rather our need to enjoy each other. We laughed until the pain set in and then held each other until it eased away. Your laughter would move sweetly into giggles like sleigh bells bouncing on silk and then you would collapse in my arms.
I watched a couple walk with knotted arms today; older people who forgot love long ago, and now are only accustomed to each other. A hint of beauty lingered on the woman’s face and though her eyes had dimmed, the faint glow of dreams remained. “Will you love me when I’m old and wrinked?” you once asked.
I watch a young couple wrestling with a mattress, forcing it through a door. And it comes back to me, the garish apartment in Milan where we made a table out of cardboard boxes and thought it was beautiful. Everything was beautiful to you. You could change hardships into adventures and lying in tall grass with you, eating melon and cheese with cheap wine was exciting and luxurious. Nothing could make you bitter; not the betrayals of life or the scams of fate. “The tests are not what we hoped for,” said the doctor. You asked how long. “I’d say a year,” he said, gulping hard with the honesty.
“Hey, imagine that!” you said as we left the medical center and entered the biting chill of January. You clutched my arm, pressed your head to my shoulder and sighed, “a whole year!”
You found me crying. The emptiness beside you stirred you from bed and you found me on the balcony. “If you’re crying for you,” you whispered as you pulled me into your arms, “then I’ll cry with you.” Your fingers coursed through my hair; your cheek pressed mine and I could feel your smile. “But if you’re crying for me, please stop now. I have lived every dream I ever had and I simply ran out of dreams. I have been happy every moment with you. My best friend says I’m disgusting. She calls me June Cleaver. I think God knows that I have nothing more to get from life, I’ve received it all.”
You were the positive current of life and you found it impossible to see fault, guilt, insult or blame. The most offensive person was answered with you saying, “Poor thing, to have to live with those feelings.” The most remarkable thing I ever heard in my life was waking up with you leaning on my chest with that pixie smile and asking, “What can I do today to make you happy?”
You still do it. Even now you make me happy. I sit at the desk and stack the photos before me like children at roll call. You are there, clicked into permanence with the silly poses and flashy smiles. You are there in elegance and jeans, stoles and t-shirts. You are there on beaches and ski lifts. You are there at picnics in secret places and blue blood parties. You are there with babies and children, dogs and that profane parrot you had to have. You are there with me, fitted so perfectly against me, our arms connecting us as we really were. And I yet feel each rise and hollow of you; they are indelible upon my mind like birthmarks or scars. You are there . . . .
If the ashes of time had invaded your hair, I would have loved you more than ever before. If your skin, pearl-smooth in youth, surrendered to the lines of seasons, I would have touched it with a sense of wonder. If your eyes faded and your step grew unsteady, you would rest upon my arm and we would have walked through eternity.
Dear Optimist,Pessimist,and Realist, While you guys are busy arguing about a glass of water, I drank it. Sincerely the Opportunist.
Posted 05 October 2012 - 10:04 PM
Like sand through the hour glass so are the days of our house cleaning.
The easel stands firm and my canvass lies silent so I diped into the paint and with a stroke of the brush the colours flourish and take form, to paint a landescape with vibrant colour and charm I will catch that moment forever in time.
The giving of love is an education in itself.
Posted 06 October 2012 - 01:00 AM
Every time I read your writing I am deeply humbled and moved to tears. On one hand I am so sad for you, yet on the other I know you have loved and been loved. The only miracle/reason for a life! (In my opinion anyways, and I have a hunch you may just agree.) I know because I have the great honor of having the same kind of love in my life. You remind me how lucky we have been and still are and remind me to cherish every moment. Thank you, for sharing David.