Anything. I would do anything for you. Whatever you wanted, whatever you needed. No risk was too much of a challenge. Nothing mattered except making sure that you were happy. I could not have loved you more if I had tried. The first time I saw you, I knew. It was that simple. My heart was full and I couldn’t wait to race over to you. I had to see you no matter what.
Archive for the ‘Different Flags’ Category
This isn’t happening. It is not supposed to happen. You and I are standing by ourselves within 2 or 3 feet from one another. We don’t dare to get close. We feel, but we shouldn’t feel. I don’t dare walk to where you are. I could pretend that I need to ask you something, but if I do, my eyes would tell you things you don’t want to know. There is no one. You are the dream of my life. There is no other.
There we were, you and I. My knees were trembling. I made an effort to look at you, at your beautiful brown eyes. I had to do it. The words I wanted to say had to come out of my mouth. We were scared—you didn’t want to hear them and I was not going to let that stop me. My body stood before you. It was stiff. The words, I will never forget the words. They came out slowly, as if I had practiced them for hours. You said nothing; listening was all you could handle. My face was red. I swallowed hard. My patience was done with you. My legs walked me towards the door.
The body was like a shut door. The body was starting to feel but it didn’t want to. It resisted life, it resisted passion. The body resisted you. The voice coming out of the mouth was small. The voice didn’t want to say it—not out loud, not for everyone to hear. Acknowledging you meant acknowledging love. That was forbidden; it just wasn’t done in our world. Hiding was allowed. Having a secret that no one must know about was allowed as well. The secret was not well-kept. The eyes could not hide what the soul felt.
The name. It was his name. It was his name and his only. It belonged to no other man, living or dead. She had never been aware of it before she met him. Then she smiled in amazement and joy. It was an unusual name and it became like a drug. She would spell it over and over. She wanted to see it, to read it. There was nothing like it. It was like a foreign language that she had to learn.
The name. It was his name, his name only. It belonged to no other man living or dead. The young woman treasured it. She had never been aware of it before, not until after she met him. Then it was like a drug. She wrote it down on a piece of paper over and over again. She spelled it out. It was like learning a foreign language. She did not want to learn it, but her heart told her that she had to. There was no other way.
The ink for the printer, the paper to print out the book, the time spent writing it, the time slaving over the computer, writing with the finger of one hand. It was my life. The book was my life. It still is. The passion could be heard in of. She had said these things many times before. She had spoken with deep emotion in her voice. She cared. She would always care, even after she was dead. The experience which led to the writing of my novel changed my life forever. I have written other things about subjects that were meaningful to me, but nothing is as important as telling the story of a young woman discovering herself on a desperate journey far away, to a country that she left long ago. She is a stranger in that country. She’s lived elsewhere, with different people, different habits. But in this other country, she feels again. She is alive as she has never been alive. She feels young. She stops dressing like an old lady. The young woman falls in love with someone she thinks she can’t have. The man in question is a priest. Priests can’t be lovers, boyfriends or husbands.
Tell me, how long has it been? How many years exactly? We met, I know. I remember that. It was on a Monday and I couldn’t believe who I was being introduced to. I lowered my eyes when we shook hands; I was young and didn’t know what to say beyond: nice to meet you. I saw something familiar in you, something I believed I saw somewhere else but didn’t remember where. Even now I can’t quite put my finger on what it was. It must have been the unusual place or how handsome you looked. You were a significant shadow, the beginning of something unforgettable.
I don’t remember; it is blurry and not clear. I can’t see your face in my mind anymore. It’s gone. But the feelings, those will remain in me forever. The way my legs would hurry as I walked towards you, how my heart would pound when I looked at you; the redness in my face if you happened to glance at me. These memories have faces. They have skin and bones. It is my heart. My heart has been so stubborn all these years. I met you; nothing was what it had been. I had no map, no way to discern what I was experiencing, not at first. Sometime later I pieced it all together and I knew. Something in you responded to something in me. You were it.
The door was large. It was wide open. The sun shone on the tile floors. She stood by the entrance, near the brick wall. Was he going to come? Was he going to show up this afternoon? She couldn’t wait much longer. What if someone saw her? What would she say if an acquaintance asked her? Mass wouldn’t be starting for another 3 hours. She’d take the risk. She’d simply say that she had to tell him something about the Legion of Mary, something like that. Making something up wasn’t quite right, but she didn’t care. The last time she had seen him was almost 2 weeks ago. It was an eternity. She didn’t like eternities. A man opened one of the other doors, by the altar. She made the sign of the Cross and swallowed. Her knees felt funny, as if they would betray her. She walked towards him.