spring evenings

On rare spring nights, we used to walk together, just you and I.

Those early spring evenings, where the weather wavers between soft humidity that fluffs my hair into a Victorian masterpiece and cool, breeziness with a hint of winter still clinging to its edge--the light of the waxing moon, set like a gleaming white coin low in the eastern sky--the leaves, once red and yellow in autumn, now blowing, all skeletons and dry remains, around our ankles.

At first when I leave the house, I am alone, head drooping, eyes fixed on the white path of our driveway beneath my feet meandering their way along. But soon the stars begin to sing and a lonely mockingbird, and I look up from my heavy thoughts

and see you. Waiting. As if you've been here all the time.

(but of course you have--I just pretend not to remember)

Sometimes you take my hand and lead me along the path, but other times we pace side by side, not even needing the simplest touch. The cats follow us and rub up against your ankles, and you tuck a strand of frizzing hair behind my ear and whisper, "What's wrong?"

And fragment by fragment, syllable by broken syllable, the words come--angry, bitter, full of self-pity, of hurt and disappointment and despair. Foolish words. Biting words ("Don't you care that I am perishing?"); sincere words ("I can't do this on my own."); and sometimes, on the darkest nights, no words at all.

Mostly I forget you are the author of my story (strange miracle, that we should be able to talk in such a way) and simply vent (because, after all, who else was there to vent to? And you asked, after all).

You never interrupt me. You simply listen, sometimes taking my hand or leaning closer to me or, when I can't keep the tears from filling up my eyes and wetting my cheeks, wrapping your arms around me and saying, "There, there." But you always let me finish.

And then, when all my words have run out and I have nothing left to give, no more tears left to cry, you wipe them away and take me in your arms.

"You poor, shortsighted thing," you say, stroking my hair. "If only you could see, Dear One. That this isn't how it ends. That this isn't even where it begins. That in five years tomorrow's exam or So-and-so will not even be remembered to you. You're constrained by time--but remember that I am not. I know how it ends, and trust me, it's beautiful. Beautiful. Just like you."

A bitter laugh. A "Just like me," in the most skeptical of tones.

A finger on my lips. "Just like I made you. Do you think I couldn't have given you raven black tresses or clear gray eyes if I had wanted? Dear One, you are perfect. You are mine."

"But I'm not--"

"You are mine."

"But my life--"

"--is beautiful, for I have planned each step you will take."

"But my heart--"

"--is yet weak and young, but I will grow it in due time."

Eyes drop to the ground. There are a few tears that mingle with the dirt my shoes are playing with.

"But why couldn't it be a love story?"

I feel your arms go around me again, and the warmth is all around me as you breathe into my hair, "Oh, Dearheart. It is a love story. But so much truer one than you know."

----

On rare spring nights, we used to walk together, just you and I. And when you looked on my mouse-brown hair and eyes long dimmed by tears and face I never could reconcile as even passably pretty and told me I was beautiful and Beloved--not the skeleton leaves nor the cold light of the moon nor the doubts and fears of my own waking soul could shake the love that was kindled between we two.

And in other early spring evenings, we shall walk together again.