May, 2002

“There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature.”

–Lawrence Durrell

My attempt to turn him into literature:

         I had been on the bus for three and a half days, and we were only thirty miles away now.  My hands began to sweat as I tried fruitlessly to apply a little makeup to my dirty face.  I couldn’t believe that I was going to see him again.  It had been two and a half years, and I only had the last 30 miles of 3000 to go.  What would he look like?  What was it going to be like?  The phone calls told me that it would be good, that it would be like before.  But, my nerves were getting the best of me. 

            I stared out the window at the hot Florida landscape, hoping it would be ok, that I had made the right choice.  I had never wanted anything so badly before.  He haunted my dreams along with my waking hours.  It was the idea of him that kept me going when my step “monster” had kicked me out.  It had been the letters and his voice across a telephone wire that had me believing that love really did exist.  He said come, so I did.

            As the bus slowed and pulled into an old gas station, I wondered if this was it, where I got off, where I would finally find out if reality was as vivid as my dreams.  The bus rounded the corner and I saw him sitting on the curb, white t-shirt, black baseball cap turned backwards.  My heart started to pound and sweat began to bead on my skin as if I had been standing under a heat lamp.  He saw the bus and slowly stood in anticipation, his eyes searching the windows.

            I stood and pushed through the crowd beginning to form in the aisle.  I couldn’t wait a minute more.  I needed to touch him to prove this was real.  The door of the bus slowly opened, and there he was.  A slight breeze ruffled his t-shirt, and his hands were stuffed into his pockets.  I stepped out and tentatively walked towards him.  The small smile that held his lips turned into a large grin as he stepped closer, his hands out of his pockets and arms outstretched. 

            Without realizing it, I was suddenly in his arms, the same smell of his laundry soap surrounding me along with his strong arms.  This was happiness, truly.  I felt like I had come home, that this was where I belonged, that I had found the place where I always wanted to be.

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4 thoughts on “May, 2002

  1. Dear Darlin’

    This I love…and live. I am afraid though we do not choose between the three but love, and suffer and embrace them in words all at once.

    We are parallel paths, you and I.

    I wasn’t sure where to say, but this is truly the right place… in the past and the present at the same time, stopping the clocks until our love returns, or perhaps we find another we have lost along the way to immortalize in stolen moments with letters and words.

    Love…yes.

    Taylor

    Like

      • The irony is, if you read my intro page, I once imagined the words would make me immortal but I see it is the ones I love who are blessed with that timeless girlish inexpressivenes.

        Take care love.

        Like

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