Aya

In March he took a three week trip and I knew things were not the same. I drove him home the night he returned and stood outside the building, trying to remember the exact moment they’ve begun to change. I thought maybe we could pass through this, all couples must.  

Can you return the books you took out last week?

Aren’t you heading out there anyway? Can’t you pass by the library on your way back?

Another Sunday afternoon and another Sunday afternoon fight. Statements turned into questions.  Sometimes confrontational and accusatory, most times phrased in the negative.  The slow dance of love, laughter, and taking care of each other seemed to fade into the background, replaced by short, impatient exchanges.  It was not only the words that seemed to fail us.  We could not say much of what we felt and thought.  Rather than comfort, a touch or a hand holding was desperate and frantic.

I think of the bonds we form with one another as invisible bursts of light.  When you disclose something of yourself, say a kind word, or help with a difficult problem, you throw a burst of light at the other person and an invisible bond is formed. Through these arguments, not only were bonds not formed but old ones began to strain under the resentment. And I knew clearly that I was the reason and the agent.

I woke up every morning with a resolution to stop and do better.  I had to recover from this madness. I shut my eyes tightly before picking up the cell phone, breathe deeply and hope that my old voice would be back.  That our old talks would be back.  The phone stops ringing and a short, impatient exchange would end too soon.

Time for reflection and eventual understanding can run out on you quickly. I didn’t understand it completely at the time but I couldn’t reconcile my desire for a new life with a wish for family acceptance. I made a choice. I couldn’t marry without my father’s approval, blessings, and engagement, none of which he was willing to give. And I wanted all of them with not one left behind. Inflexibility must be where the unwise live.  I was too much of a coward to see what the other side of the mountain held for me*.

That time should have been a time to make sense of the stresses of a new life and the weight of possibilities. I should have been concerned with the home and family we were about to build. Instead, we were mired in a hideous emotional battle that neither of us knew how to navigate.

My father had his reasons.  What being cut off really meant in a day-to-day sense of the phrase remains a mystery; in other words, I don’t know what fathers did when they cut off their daughters.  As with delayed understanding, there was really no choice that needed to be made.  A father can no more sever a grown daughter from his life than he can will her unborn.

I don’t know what the greater tragedy is, that we deny one another a chance at happiness or that we give up on whom we love so easily.

With a luxury of a postmortem on a postmortem, I ask myself about what I had lost. I had lost a home I would build with a man who loved me and I loved him. I had lost a family of my own that would expand the one from which I had grown. Every once in a while I would tell myself that a long, happy marriage is near extinction and ask myself if I really thought anything that good lasted in life. I had lost my closest confidante, the person whom I’ve called whenever something exciting, frightening, or hilarious passed through my day. What have I gained? I’d lie to you if I said I’d gained anything.

Several months after we had last spoken, I celebrated my birthday with a number of friends and he showed up near the end of the night with an invitation to have dinner before his departure the following week. His work has since taken him to another state. He knew I hated surprises and apologized but I was genuinely delighted to see his face. The dinner was not as awkward as I had feared. It was quite lovely actually. We had a great deal of catching up to do about work, family, and mutual friends that either he or I had not seen much of, depending on who introduced whom. Sometime near the end of the night, I don’t remember what words were said, but I was overwhelmed with the greatest feeling of sadness. It was as though my chest was carved out. He meant the world to me and yet we were sitting facing one another and neither had the will nor the ability to say anything.

In the months prior to this last meeting, I’ve felt all types of regret. Dull, aching regrets and burning, stabbing regrets. For all this pain, things do get better. There are days and sometimes weeks that pass that I don’t remember the pain. Regrets are another story. It has been a few years now and a great part of my sanity is back as I no longer bury myself in work.  I have also taken some steps towards a different life altogether.  Better late than never, right?

* A mentor and a friend often told me a story of a wise ancient Egyptian who enlightens a boy with the understanding that he has seen more than his grandfather and knows more than his father. And rather than believe what others tell him is on the other side of the mountain, to climb it and see for himself.

At night sometimes, I would call because I would hear a suspicious sound coming from the living room. This was when I lived in a not so cool neighbourhood in a very uncool part of town. Listen, I would whisper to the groggy but attentive voice on the other end, I’m walking by the den now. I’m checking the laundry room now. Sunday afternoons were spent on the couch, legs intertwined, with sporadic talk. A week’s worth of magazines and mail sprawled on the coffee table. It is the comfort of rituals that made our love so effortless. Maybe this isn’t the way things are supposed to be, I thought. Aren’t people engaged in tumultuous, torturous battles that end in kissy faces and giggling friends? End scene.

When it came to talks of the future, we seemed to take different routes to the same spot. A mutual friend’s wife was giving birth and their 15-month old needed someone to take care of him while his grandparents flew down. We were up for the challenge. The little boy was cute as hell and still asleep when he was dropped off at my place just after dawn. He came over a couple of hours later so the three of us could spend the day. What a wonderful morning. Breakfast, some SpongeBob, the two guys tumbling in the living room. The sounds of laughter could be heard two houses down.

We’ll definitely need one or two of these.

At least, I concurred.

Afternoon was not as smooth. Our angelic little visitor didn’t want to take a nap, had no use for a snack, and was certain that he’d had enough of the two of us. I’ve taken care of my share of nieces and cousins and could set him straight but all my tricks were wasted on someone who’s never seen a stink eye or had a wooden spoon waved in his face. Not only was he screaming the paint off the walls, a banana he threw barely missed my right ear and struck him squarely on the chest. We were thoroughly terrorized by a twenty pound midget in training underpants.

Lots of people lived long, fulfilling lives childfree.

T.S. Eliot, Louis Armstrong, I counted.

Nothing in my past or even my spirit taught me that I deserved what I felt when we were together. To some of my cynical, oft-dating friends I repeated that little counts more than a man who hugs with a forceful generosity. Who holds without restlessness. And even fewer things mean more than someone who listens to you complain about your boss and when you ask for an opinion tells you that you’re a little defensive about that particular issue. It may not please you at first but you’re grateful that someone can orient you in reality when it is so tempting to veer off.

I promised to mention our restaurant conversation to my folks some weeks ago. And he was familiar with this state. But if things were going to happen and two people were going to get married, then a mention to family is a bare prerequisite.

My mother was blunt. She never minces words when something is not to her liking, and my father’s dissatisfaction with something I’m doing is usually not to her liking. Some days after we spoke, the message to me was count me out of anything you’re doing.  There was more, of course, and certainly more to our histories but this is what my memory deems worth repeating. I brushed it off. I’ve been away from home for over eight years and it was really just a formality on my end.

I’ve reminded myself about what was important and still present. That we are together and want to be together. What else am I missing? That I grew up believing that with happiness must come some loss, and with astounding beauty, ugliness. If we must bring up beauty, shall I confide in you that I chuckled inwards at other women’s reaction to him? I am not the jealous type. Human, yes, possessive, maybe, but jealous, nope. What most didn’t know but I knew was that his outward beauty was only the prelude.

Today every moment will count despite the heaviness that has begun to creep in from many ends. Terribly unfair.

Of all the regrets that we carry every day, could falling in love be the most worthwhile?

It was well before midnight but the restaurant bustled with only half the patrons of a Friday night. A tradition of sorts, every Friday dinner meant the same table for us. Tonight wasn’t every night, though, as I could see light and laughter dance in his eyes.

He wanted to say something and I knew he would eventually but, for now, the host hovered, smiling, wondering who would be doing the orders that evening. Hear, let me hold that. Did you read the article I sent you? Exactly, no one can fundraise their way out of a deficit. Did you taste this? It’s very good! I’d really rather not see it but if we do, can we check out the new display at the museum? Yep, I took a picture on my phone, DON’T laugh. A reach across the table for a quiet touch, a look to the left that says ‘look at that’, a whisper. Some silence even.

This is how matters remained for an hour or two. These nights were like a long walk after a difficult day. When the anticipation became unbearable and the presence of others nearby burdensome, I reminded myself that of the two of us, he was the person of words. He said I love you first. He forgave first. He brought me into his world first. I haven’t known him to be a hesitant man or an impulsive man.

Gentle, introspective, and a man for whom words meant everything, I knew that if I had asked if something was wrong or if he wanted to say something that it would throw his thoughts or plans asunder. How long has it been again? Twenty two months if you don’t count his three months in Asia. Twenty two if you don’t count my two in Arabia. More than two years if you count both since we spoke, wrote and visit often.

Let’s do it, he said. I know you don’t want a fuss, let’s just do it how you’ve always imagined. Two or three people, a quiet beach, and some white roses. I stared. I felt something odd in my throat. He is always first. A fuller human being than me but I would never admit it.

Thoughts raced at a thousand miles an hour and all I could say was yes. What else was there to say? Dessert? Yes, please. Same thing? Um huh. His chair moved and he was leaning towards me, a kiss, maybe? My legs wouldn’t carry me to make the distance shorter so he came over. I’m not a forever girl but there was little thought and even fewer doubts.

It was inevitable but you could not guess it from the first encounter.

I met him in a party. He wasn’t easy to miss with that face. Pffft, I thought. I know pretty boys all too well, too many hours pleading with my brother to stop holding the bathroom hostage and quit the coma-inducing cologne ritual.

A friend called me over whilst talking to him. Wonder of wonders, she exclaimed, pretty boy and I have identical playlists. Huh! He couldn’t! No one else has my taste in music; I’m an old soul, full of contradiction and rhythm.  What kind of cologne was this pretty boy sniffing? And what’s with the earring? Hope he had a pretty dress to go with it. I’m usually okay with guys and earrings but I was in angry spirits. It would be months later that I would wonder about his earring. He would say that I had looked at it (and him!) with such anger that he went to the bathroom and took it off. He wanted to talk to me once more that evening and didn’t want to get that look.

And we did talk. Again. And again.  Where did all those words come from?  And how did they fail us so exquisitely?

I have never been the kind of person who takes her blessings for granted. In my 2 years of blogging, many of you have become my friends. I really do appreciate your coming over, and especially the time you take to read and comment on my posts. I try to keep up with those of you who write regularly but I think I may have fallen behind a little.

No, this is not a farewell speech or any drama of the sort. I figured I’d register my gratitude lest some of you be hissing behind your screens, kissing your teeth at me, muttering: ‘that ungrateful bitch, complains and whines nonstop, and then acts like no one did nuffin’ for her sorry ass‘.

Well, I do hold it close to my heart and I am grateful for your company and your words.

A thousand hugs and kisses……..

Okay, enough of that! Before this fab. blog turns all estrogeny and stupid, I’ve decided to unearth the most painful breakup and spill it onto the lap of my fav. readers. Yes, that means that over the next 3 posts, I shall open up my angry little heart and tell my story of love as I don’t know when this melancholy train will come again.

I promise when the miniseries ends that I will have fresh material for the new year with pictures and all. I may even go back to bringing up culinary delights, and who knows, we may have a cook-a-thon in January!

I love beautiful men.

I love piggyback rides.

Can I say ‘I don’t understand your ears!’ without them turning red with anger? If yes, then I love you.

I’m trying to cheer myself up as I embark on a few difficult weeks of recommending the layoffs of hardworking people from their jobs. This week is especially hideous. As will be the next four. And that’s not all. The lucky bastards who get to keep their positions into the new year will most likely do the work of two other (now unemployed, unlucky bastards) for a few months before they, too, are thrown out.

The shoddy economy is bringing despair to so many, and it seems as though the worst is yet to come. This is probably the one aspect of my work for the past 6 years that is responsible for the 15 grey hairs I acquire every December.

The beautiful men thing is for real, blogger friends. I will definitely revisit it soon. In the meantime, if you’re a beautiful man who gives piggyback rides (I promise to lose another 2 kilos), your trophy husband application will be expedited.