The boughs of the tree rose and fell gently in the warm air swimming through the small copse and across the grass, suffused, drunk with perfumes of this summer's afternoon and up to where I sit at the window, waiting.
Maybe she is simply late, delayed, some unforeseen circumstance betraying her promise, our plans, stringing out and snagging her somewhere on her way. Or, worse, she has forgotten me, the places, the time we agreed that other day so fondly remembered, tired and warm, after a long long walk when we seemed to be the centre of everything, and the evening sun melted our minds and hearts together.
Maybe I should venture outside, and wait, sitting on the lawn amidst the buzzing air and by the warm wall where ivy tightens its grip. If the telephone should ring deep in the cool darkness of the hall I should hear it and run across the grass and through the kitchen and, breathless, grab the smooth receiver and answer in suppressed excitement: 'Hello, my friend, my darling, my love. Hello.'
So softly, I leave the window open and gently move down the stairs, disturbing the silent dust falling, falling, like snow from nowhere. Past the telephone, stone silent, and through the bright kitchen, and out into the warmth, the thick perfumes, the bird song twinkling sunlight on the sea, and on to the crisp dry grass, listening through the heat, through the buzzing insects, through the hiss of the sun, listening for the sound of your car, or your phone call.Wisps of cloud, high up in the deep blue, reflect my hopes of seeing you, almost sighing yet silent and still, overseeing my fate, the two of us and how we relate in time and space, and whether the distance is closing in or simply constant, whether you are approaching or not, whether I am remembered, loved, or forgotten.
That other day still burns warmly in my mind. How lightly we ran through the warm air supporting our delicate youth, eyes flashing, the meadow winking back at us, light as the sunshine slipping across the grasses, touching the soft ripples, every cell of our bodies saturated with sunshine, buzzing bees drunk on summer nectar. And something happened - or so it seemed to me. Something that could surely not be forgotten because it had seared its way, branded its mark, on my existence; would always be there. How close we were, I now realize, how natural, with no effort, we seemed to fall into orbit around each other, so close, that we embraced each other without embracing, kissed without our lips touching, held hands without holding hands. Everything…it had all happened without happening, by simply being together. Auras palpably touching and mingling, that feeling, that tingling in my arm which could go no closer to yours without touching and, yet, even touching seemed unnecessary as we knew, I knew, it was all possible, all probable, in time.
Sitting at the window, waiting, sadly pulling the petals off my life, eyes hurting, the meniscus of tears bubbling up from just below the surface where they have waited patiently, preparing themselves, since those tears which I left in torn tissues in your bin. We are still there, in our house, echoing in those walls, back and forth, beyond our hearing, for ever. And trapped in the fibres of the carpets, and captured on so many photographs attracting the dust. When I walked past our house everything looked the same. Behind those friendly walls, in those dimly lit rooms behind the curtains, I knew who lived in those houses - and they were unaware of my passing, my reflection slipping across their windows. The children were not playing in the street on this warm cloudy late autumn afternoon. It was so quiet.
I know there were others in your life. I remember, as we stood one evening with friends under the streetlight, saying goodbye, how your shadow danced close to his. I could not bear to watch. How your shadow kissed his shadow. Maybe, then I could pretend that it had not happened. That shadowy side of our lives from which we, you, I, could not escape, not forever.
[to be continued]