“What’s in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. … Retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title. … [And] Take all myself.”
—William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet.
We treaded onward through our journey, locked together in all things but in name or title. Several times he asked me what we were, but I was reluctant to label what we shared. And so we carried on in our intricate charade, while I, in secret, mourned for my poor Heart.
Friday, May 12, 2006
We sipped our cups of coffee, sitting on a banquette in a small espresso bar in town, my little sister’s camera flashing in our faces as we posed. One particular black and white picture stuck out in both our minds. My mother said it looked like we were sitting in divorce court; he said it appeared that I had won the car and the house.
Later that night, he commented on the photograph, saying:
We are both serious. We are both thinking. There is a
Substantial distance and space between the two of
Us. A picture can say a thousand words.
Nevertheless, it can omit emotions that a lens
Cannot capture.
Fear, frustration, anxiety, friendship, trust,
Longing and anticipation. Those emotions
Permeate. Some more for me; others more for her.
What she didn’t know was that I wanted to
Embrace her. Hug her in front of the camera, in
Front of anyone interested in observing. Kiss her on
The forehead and whisper in her ear.
He took me to restaurants, bars, clubs, riverside parks, bookstores, and cafés. We reveled in the match we’d made, both alike in interest, opinion and intellect. I respected and admired him for what he’d come from, and where he’d guided me. Patient and kind as he was, I could not resist to the urge to let down my hair. He coaxed me from my shell, and loved me tenderly.
When he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me tight against his chest, I could not help but compare my Love and him. I did not condemn him for his differences; rather I celebrated them in my own quiet way. I tucked my head against his shoulder and breathed him in with all my might—taking in his voice, his words, his smell, his touch and all things about him precious to me. I keep them in a box inside my heart, a slow attempt to patch a gaping hole.
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