Tuesday, September 21, 2010

dear lover

Dear Lover,

If I could, I would take you in my arms and hold you close to me, the way a mother does a son, the way I do you when you place your head in my lap, but I can't.

I can't do that because you don't deserve it. I can't do that because it wouldn't make sense.

I'm the one who longs to be held, but I refuse it. I don't need another man to come along and hold my head close to his heart and make me believe that true love has come to rescue me at last.

It's time that I stop waiting for love to "rescue" me from my life.

My life is mine, imperfect though it may be. It's actually not that bad, when you look at it.

I have all of my limbs, all of my teeth, all of my functioning.

My family is healthy, and my family is, for the most part, all still alive. My great-grandmother didn't die until she was 94.

I can still visit my childhood home, and my childhood neighborhood, and converse with people I knew in childhood. They are all still here.

I've traveled, maybe not as far as others, but I have seen more than some.

My eyes have witnessed much more beauty than horror, and the moments of sadness that have tinged my life have been overwhelmed by the many moments of joy I have experienced.

I work with children, and I have come to witness the innocent amazement they add to your life. I have a sister. I have many young cousins. One of my good friends is having a baby.

I am blessed, and imperfect though my life may be, when you get right down to it, it doesn't seem half that bad.

I have been divinely blessed with the gift of writing; the gift of word; a gift I didn't study to receive, but one that I had from birth, as will say my mother, who witnessed me pick up a book without prompting at two years of age, and start reading.

My life is mine, and I'm tired of waiting to be rescued from it.

In fact, that's probably 90% of my problem.

Once upon a time, I needed to be saved. From many things, but mostly, from myself. But the only person who could save me, was me. I didn't know this until the pattern was set, but I looked for others to be my Superman when who I was really looking for was the Wonder Woman inside myself that I didn't know was there.

So, my lover, I don't need you to save me. And I can't save you.

But I can love you. That's about all I can probably offer you in complete confidence.

I can't promise you I won't be angry with you. I can't promise you I won't lust for others. I can't say I won't touch another in the dead of night. I can't say I will always talk to you. I can't promise you these things.

But I can promise you that I, if even a little tiny part of me, will always love you. Always. Like a great author said, as I get older, I hope what I feel for you will ebb away. It's strong, you know. But even in writing that, I don't want it to ebb away. I can't let go of it. And in the next life, I'll look for you. And I hope you're the first I find. But I hope I find you a little sooner. Like maybe in high school. I would have liked to have been your friend then. I would have liked to know what kind of person you were through my own interactions with you, rather than just your descriptions of your past self.

I lied to you, you know. I told you that I could get over anyone I wanted to. I said that, knowing I was committing a falsehood against the universe. I will never get over you. Part of me will always have her hands out, reaching in blindness for your familiar touch. That part of me will always live with you. That part of me will live, suspended in time, never aging, but still searching.

The rest of me, however, will move on, as will you. One day, this will cease to exist. What was once so familiar to us, will become nothing more than the memory of what was. And when the memory pops into my head, as they so often do, I know I will smile and allow it to envelop me, until it lets me go, back to the reality that will be wherever I am; whatever I'm doing then.

But we, somewhere in time, will always live, wrapped in each other, conversing until the moon turns to sun, and until our words become the touches that set our bodies apart from this world; transcendentally on another plane.

It is that place where I will go, at night, when I give my mind permission to roam to places that, in daylight, seem foolhardy or weak. It is that place that will always grant me the comfort of that which I once knew so well; that which I will one day inevitably long for.

So, lover, in the end, all I can offer you are my words. Even my caressing of your head pressed into me can not always be guaranteed. One day, I'll have children who will need that exact same motion; their needs will be more pressing, and will beseech my urgent attention.

But I can always offer you my words. They are the most uncensored part of me. Though I share them with all, know that they are written just for you, and no one else.

These are yours. Take them on your journey; let them be a blanket when you are cold; a remedy when you are ill. I need them no more. The feeling lives in me.

Love, always,
Malorie

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