And every time you pushed me away, you'd still tell me I was beautiful and I'd look in your eyes and know you loved me too much to be with me. And I'd walk into my house and put that blue shirt on and fall asleep thinking that the one person I loved thought me beautiful. And I was too young to think that love should be any different than being pushed away.
Through the years, through the summers, through much of college, I remember you then and there, your summer skin, your crooked grin, your hockey skates, my roller skates, the dancing, your seeking eyes and your beautiful mind, always open to me, always there, the thrill of your ideas, your energy, you inspiration, our conversations. The thrill of the music we shared. The thrill of our connection. I found home in you, and you found it in me. We found in each other the divine safety of unspoken yet knowing love. All I needed was to know that you were there. All I knew was that if you were at least in the room, that was enough. I remember the purity of our youth, our tentative love. Beautiful memories, yes. Even the pain then, even the years of being beside you and not being able to be with you. I knew you loved me. You knew I loved you. We placed it high, we kept it pure.
And then years later you came to me and I loved you. Oh how I loved out. Out loud and free.
It's tainted now, my heart, my belief. Those memories, that hope. You speak of you, I speak of you. We have something in common, you and I. We both love and worry about you. The hours and hours I spend worrying about you. Futile.
Still, our path, our future, was right there.
Right there.
If you wanted it, I would have given it to you. I did give it to you, did I not? With open arms and mind and love. Hope and faith and home. The most enduring, the most beautiful, the love we discovered and realized after so many years. The warmth of unwrapping thirty years of love. I believed in you enough to believe in you. That's a funny sentence to write but it makes sense, at least to me. And I know to you. I believed in you. Damn, I believed in you so.
It's like walking through wet sand now, without you. Deep effort. The memory, the purity of what you taught me then, of knowing you now, it's all obscured by the dark muck of your most recent messages written on my heart. You've darkened this heart of mine, wounded me, scarred me. Halted my dreams, fogged my memories. You left me without involving me. You stole my voice, my memories, my dreams. You took it all from me, from my heart. You took it all.
And yet, so many of the tears I cry now are for you. Are we so connected that I suffer your lessons for you? Can that be love? These days I spend my time thinking about all the things I did not do - when I had the chance to - with you. The times I pulled you into peaceful sleep, rubbing your forehead, touching your soul with my fingers. Had I asked you to stay awake a moment more, I would have told your sleepy self how much I loved you, how I cherished you, I would have reached for you, reminded you how you were wanted. I wasn't through loving you. But would I have salvation now? In all our conversations, did I pay attention to what you did not say, when I listened with full heart to your words, held you as you weeped. Had I paused long enough from bandaging your soul, would I have seen your bleeding as more than your pain? Would you have seen mine? I had the love, I had the salve. I had manamana. I lived our time together in the wishing chair, in the saving of you.
Pathetic? I think she was right. Her ugly words echo back and back. I shut my eyes, shake my head, and agree. So different, she and I. I fear for you for the selfish games, the manipulative heart you slumber beside. Your morals were never backed into a corner. Your morals should have spoken their own voice. I told you once to give trust wings. You marveled at the concept.
I tell it to myself now, give trust wings. Fly away.
Pathetic is that the fear and worry I have that you are in a life and hands that will harm you, that will quiet your voice, your beauty, douse your fire. For gain, for the prize, the blue ribbon. What will happen to the soul I knew? Who will tend to your dreams? Who will encourage your ideas, your growth? Who will love the man I know, who will give life to his heart? Who will give lift to his flight?
A strange feeling lands on me, my hopes, my dreams. Shattered faith from your explosion falls as dust landing over my heart, my face, my hands. I am covered with the painful particles of us. The strange dust of your absence.
I grieve you, I grieve us, for the beautiful youth that we were, for the long line of our connected hearts and lives that now have separate paths. I grieve the absence of hope. You turned that sunshine of ours into darkness. I search this place for your lost face. But you are gone. These days are cold, grey, silent. These days are without our dreams, without you. I know you, and I know that in all your broad imagination, you still have no idea what this has done to me. You know what it has done to you, but not me. In time I will stop searching my life for your lost face. In time, you will be absent from my heart. In time.
Slumbering in every human being lies an infinity of possibilities, which
one must not arouse in vain. For it is terrible when the whole man resonates
with echoes and echoes, none becoming a real voice. ~ Elisas Canetti.
8 comments:
Alison, a wise man (an industrial psychologist I believe you might know) talked to me at length about "rescuing" the men I loved during the 17 years I knew him. He said the bad thing about building them up, showing them I believed in them, helping them believe in themselves, was that I was too good at it. He said they eventually believed in themselves so much they thought they didn't need me anymore. Sound familiar?
my friend. im sorry that you are hurting so much. i wish i had something to say that would soothe you.
Wow. Nobody can ever say you are not in touch with your emotions.
The only thing I've really learned about people is that I can't do anything for them. If they come to me for help, I can help them, but I can't make them wiser or have clearer vision that steers them clear of mistakes I see as obvious. In that regard, we're all on our own.
But, I wanted to make a small comment about you. I see a lot of pain pouring out here, pain that may, or may not, be felt by that Other. I think that writers suffer from a particular malady that makes them feel everything a little bit more sharply, more fully, more... Well, perhaps just more than their fellows. They of a literary bent and mind tend to see the while canvas of life and stretch to fill every inch.
I both hope and fear that the sensation of this will eventually dull in your own mind and give your writer's soul a little relief.
my mother just sent me an email that is appropriate
Don't be sad that it's over, be thankful it happened.
It might help if you keep repeating this in quiet moments:
"Fuck him."
That helped me alot a few years ago.
Rita - I could never think or say that, that's just not who I am.
Alison, again, I am amazed at your ability to 'write' your emotions. But I've got to tell you, girl... you know all those questions you have asked about WHO will do these things for him? HE will. Just as you will for YOU. Until he can do those things for himself; give himself those things -- he will never be able to give anyone else anything else.
Post a Comment