A love, unconditional
I have been linked to this person since birth (she’s 10 days older than I am) and we’ve shared an intriguing bond across nearly 44 years.
But I know hardly anything about her.
And yet, I love her.
(Not in a “oh, baby, oh, baby” kind of way either; it is much deeper, on so many different levels that I can’t even begin to explain – and I’m supposed to be so good with words.)
I can go years without seeing or talking to her, but when I do, we just return to this weird lock-step pattern – like when you’re walking with friends down the street and all of a sudden realize your legs have become synchronized – and everything is interesting and alive again.
It’s old, but it’s new, too.
How love should feel.
Is it true love?
How the hell should I know?
I just know I love her on a lot of levels.
(She came over for dinner with much of my family; we spent time in the kitchen, trying to talk – but spent most of the time looking intensely into each-other’s eyes, and felt this urge to touch, to hug, to hold one-another – as people kept streaming in. She managed to grab my hand once, and wink.)
She has a marriage that is messier than mine own.
“I just don’t want to get into anything right now,” she said in the kitchen. “It’s just too hard to explain to people.”
“I don’t want to start anything either,” I said. “Timing is everything.”
While home, every time my cell rang, I hoped it was her. To talk. To make plans to see her cabin by the Platte River. To see her.
To be close, just for an instant.
“I can’t believe that two weeks is almost up,” she said as she gazed into my eyes. “Everything is so complicated.”
She’s got a 6-year-old son (and I had I all could handle with my 78-year-old father).
She has a husband that hasn’t touched her, held her, in years.
And she’s beautiful and strong and interesting (she cried as hard as we did at my mom’s funeral – she came to the graveside services – because of our shared experience; I was her first kiss and she was mine; she has, in a shoebox, every note and card I have ever written her; and it was my mom who was her first visitor at the hospital when her son was born).
Over the weekend, she called to check on my dad.
She cried for his trials (and sent me to tears, because she truly cares).
She’s already made plans to visit dad in the hospital.
She is a woman to love.
A woman to caress softly, to kiss roughly (when rough, animalistic kisses are called for) and to hold – so close that you can’t tell if that is your heart beating fast – or hers.
My life is in California; hers is in Nebraska.
Never say never (we did, during one of our marathon discussions, vow to hook up if when we were 60 and both single). Life is a mystery that opens slowly. Whatever happens, happens.
I am without hope or agenda, when it comes to a relationship with her. We always will remain friends – the kind of friend who can tell you hurtful, necessary things, but without the sting of anger – and that’s even better.
Because what I’ve realized since our last embrace is there is another soul on this planet who loves me unconditionally. Because it has always been.
A love that crosses both time and space.
I’m one lucky bastard.
No matter how much bullshit gets piled on this life, that life, we remained connected.
And those few stolen instances of a kiss or an embrace or just a look and a smile are elevated to something simply magical.
But I know hardly anything about her.
And yet, I love her.
(Not in a “oh, baby, oh, baby” kind of way either; it is much deeper, on so many different levels that I can’t even begin to explain – and I’m supposed to be so good with words.)
I can go years without seeing or talking to her, but when I do, we just return to this weird lock-step pattern – like when you’re walking with friends down the street and all of a sudden realize your legs have become synchronized – and everything is interesting and alive again.
It’s old, but it’s new, too.
How love should feel.
Is it true love?
How the hell should I know?
I just know I love her on a lot of levels.
(She came over for dinner with much of my family; we spent time in the kitchen, trying to talk – but spent most of the time looking intensely into each-other’s eyes, and felt this urge to touch, to hug, to hold one-another – as people kept streaming in. She managed to grab my hand once, and wink.)
She has a marriage that is messier than mine own.
“I just don’t want to get into anything right now,” she said in the kitchen. “It’s just too hard to explain to people.”
“I don’t want to start anything either,” I said. “Timing is everything.”
While home, every time my cell rang, I hoped it was her. To talk. To make plans to see her cabin by the Platte River. To see her.
To be close, just for an instant.
“I can’t believe that two weeks is almost up,” she said as she gazed into my eyes. “Everything is so complicated.”
She’s got a 6-year-old son (and I had I all could handle with my 78-year-old father).
She has a husband that hasn’t touched her, held her, in years.
And she’s beautiful and strong and interesting (she cried as hard as we did at my mom’s funeral – she came to the graveside services – because of our shared experience; I was her first kiss and she was mine; she has, in a shoebox, every note and card I have ever written her; and it was my mom who was her first visitor at the hospital when her son was born).
Over the weekend, she called to check on my dad.
She cried for his trials (and sent me to tears, because she truly cares).
She’s already made plans to visit dad in the hospital.
She is a woman to love.
A woman to caress softly, to kiss roughly (when rough, animalistic kisses are called for) and to hold – so close that you can’t tell if that is your heart beating fast – or hers.
My life is in California; hers is in Nebraska.
Never say never (we did, during one of our marathon discussions, vow to hook up if when we were 60 and both single). Life is a mystery that opens slowly. Whatever happens, happens.
I am without hope or agenda, when it comes to a relationship with her. We always will remain friends – the kind of friend who can tell you hurtful, necessary things, but without the sting of anger – and that’s even better.
Because what I’ve realized since our last embrace is there is another soul on this planet who loves me unconditionally. Because it has always been.
A love that crosses both time and space.
I’m one lucky bastard.
No matter how much bullshit gets piled on this life, that life, we remained connected.
And those few stolen instances of a kiss or an embrace or just a look and a smile are elevated to something simply magical.
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