BEING IN LOVE
©2011 Pam Wilkie
I remember being in love. Oh, that wonderfully glorious feeling that nothing else in the world mattered. It was the single most beautiful thing that’s ever happened to me. We saw each other for over ten years and for the entire time we remained in love. I’d hurry to see him, always anxious and a little bit nervous. He’d hug me tightly, say Hi, kiss me and then we’d sit down and share the past twenty four hours with each other. We sat close, holding on, touching while we chatted and ate our lunch. We’d talk about what we did the evening before, trying to block the inevitable feelings of jealousy we knew would come, but we smiled and listened to this part of our lives anyway. Sometimes we wouldn’t have lunch at all – we’d make better use of our time.
Leaving was the hardest part for us – we simply didn’t want to go. Driving off, I was both sad yet exhilarated by being in his presence and knowing I might see him again on his way home after work. Those ever so brief encounters would have to last until the next time; and they did. The memory of my moments with him didn’t leave my mind until I saw him again.
At first we would meet at the park and I’d sit across from him, face to face. Looking each other in the eye, we talked of nothing important. But we laughed and acted silly and we knew it was good. We could feel the bubble that enclosed us from the world. We heard and saw nothing at all but each other. He told me how pretty I was; he stroked my face and hair. He kissed me softly and all my muscles relaxed and I blended into his arms. We talked of a time we could really be together and how good it would be.
I would leave there and go home with butterflies in my stomach from the excitement of spending even such a short time with him and the anticipation of the next time. In those days and for every day ahead for many years, it was always the same; hurrying to get there, to see the sparkle in his eyes, to smell his cologne, to hear his voice, just being two people in love, and later having to force ourselves away.
A dinner and a movie for us was a special occasion. Most of the time it meant we had the whole night together. We’d go to a favorite restaurant – a fine dining institution just outside of town – and drink our wine, feeling very sophisticated. The tables were set with lovely, white linens and heavy flat wear; the walls covered with red fabric and dimly lit sconces reminiscent of a saloon from a hundred years ago. It was perfect!
Our love was genuine and all encompassing. I knew it, I felt it. It was real and it was comforting. No harsh words ever passed between us, through good times and bad. We were level with one another; soft, happy. We brought out the best in each other and it was good and I understood this is the way it’s supposed to be.
Once, on a hot mid-summer day at our meeting, I was distraught over a financial or parenting crisis and ran into his arms crying uncontrollable. When he asked me what was wrong, I couldn’t speak. He sat me down and went and found water and brought it to me and then he did the most extraordinary thing…he washed me feet! He gently washed my feet. The effect that had on me was immediate and powerful. My crying stopped – I was utterly in awe of this man. Never before had I experienced such caring tenderness, nor have I since.
We made the most of our time together. The years flew by and then it was time to part. We both knew it, but even so, it was hard to do. There was no fight, no argument, still no harsh words, just a mutual understanding of how it must be.
That was many years ago now. We’ve had no contact since then, but I often think of him and those days we enjoyed. I can see now what he taught me about how to love. I was given a great gift by him; knowing what true love feels like, of being secure and safe in that knowledge and not having to question it. I’ll always have that part of him for myself, but I knew all along he was not mine.
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