tell me about it

No matter how she twisted and angled herself, she couldn’t find that sweet spot, couldn’t settle her body comfortably on the wooden bench. She propped her heels on the edge, put them down again. Sat sideways; but then she couldn’t see the water. She gave up, and just sat.

And sat, for what seemed like ages, though her watch proclaimed it to be a mere three minutes. She checked her phone – still no message – and flicked it open and shut, open and shut. The mocking screen announced that another minute had managed to crawl by.

She sat, staring at the water. Trying to will time to pass quickly.

Another minute, then another.

She sat.

It came upon her slowly, barely unnoticeable at first, but gradually the hairs on her arm began to stand. She shivered in the chill night breeze that had sprung up out of nowhere. Then she smelt it – cloying, sweet, a thick flowery scent wafting through the air. Goosebumps standing along her arms. The smell growing stronger. A nervous glance around proved that no one was near.

Calmly but quickly she grabbed her bag, muttered a quiet “Sorry, sorry”, and walked briskly out of there. Out of the cold spot, out of the waft of scent. Back out to the main road. She shivered again, this time not from cold, but from sheer nerves, as she left the area as fast as she could. Heart thumping.

Don’t look back.

Everything
is perfect
and so simple
with you.

What can a wife know of her husband’s secret thoughts?
What can a husband know of his wife’s heart’s desires?
There is always that final frontier of privacy that can never be breached.

But fidelity is not merely a tangible, physical agreement made with the body.
It is a condition of the heart, of the mind, of the soul.
If your heart fails to be true, if your eyes stray – you have been unfaithful.

No one will ever know if you have really been true – except yourself.

Be true to your love when love has been promised.
The marriage vow is made in front of friends, family, and God.
It’s a covenant witnessed by all.
If you want to take that step, be ready to commit.
There’s no room for regret.
That marriage vow is unbreakable before God.
You are accountable to your spouse and to Him who first loved us.

Make sure you’re ready for love and its fulfillment before you venture forward.
A heart is easily broken but not soonest mended.

My love and I, we tread the miles
With cunning kisses, stolen smiles
How sure of love I cannot tell,
And yet I’d say I know it well

My love and I, we tread the years
With careful choices, hidden fears
Our love will grow – and so it will
Someday a home our love will fill.

Green skittles.
Little elephants, apple sweets, glass marbles.
White chocolate and printing photos.
Boy-cut shorts and empire waists, candles.
Stolen kisses like candies in my mouth.
A little bit of love.
Butterflies.

When the television comes on, we’re stunned. We’ve missed barely ten minutes and already we’re one down – my heart sinks. But the fight-back is typical of Liverpool. Despite the odds they pick up the pace and slowly but surely chip away at United’s defence. And once they make their first mistake (thanks, Wes!) the climax is almost certain. At the 77th minute (and isn’t that number so beautiful to both of us) Babel curls the ball above their heads in a slow-mo parabola that thunks solidly into the net. We leap up, we pump the air with our fists, I scream like a girl. “Yes!” he yells, and we’re just bubbling over with glee. I feel like a kid in the playground. Ha. Take that. We beat you!

—

I thought that you’d want what I want -
Sorry, my dear.
But where are the clowns?
Quick, send in the clowns.
Don’t bother, they’re here.

—

“So wimpy,” you tease, and indignantly I reply “I am not,” but the effect is rather lost because I’m too busy hiding behind the curtain of my own hands; a misguided notion that viewing gore through parted fingers somehow reduces the fear factor. I’m huddled under your arm when the blood splashes across the screen, and I think to myself, I really, really hate this. I don’t know how to describe how I feel inside. It’s a foot-thumping, convulsing paroxysm of fear and horror pulsating in my chest. It’s not a nice feeling.

“Do you still want to watch?” you ask, and I shake my head. As you turn it off I feel guilty for not being able to appreciate a movie you like so much, but the guilt can’t overcome the fear and the knowledge that I’ll keep myself up half the night with an overactive imagination and helpless nightmares.

Yeah, I’ll admit it. I am wimpy. :(

—

It’s every morning, from the moment I wake up till the moment I step into class. Dreading going to work is only a dread until I’m actually at work.

And then, okay, I kinda enjoy it.

But don’t tell my kids.

I went to CAP with Grace; I think, if I’m not wrong, this was written for a literary challenge in aCAPella, the newsletter thingamajig produced by the councillors for the camp. Always have loved this piece. I want to use it to teach my kids :)

(He’s a drifter, always
floating around her, has
nowhere else to go. He wishes
she would sing, not much, just the scales;
or take some notice,
give him the fish eye.)

(Bounded by round walls
she makes fish eyes
and kissy lips at him, darts
behind pebbles, swallows
his charms hook, line and sinker)

(He’s bowled over. He would
take her to the ocean, they could
count the waves. There,
in the submarine silence, they would share
their deepest secrets. Dive for pearls
like stars.)

(But her love’s since
gone belly-up. His heart sinks
like a fish. He drinks
like a stone. Drowns those sorrows,
stares emptily through glass.)

(the reason, she said
she wanted)
(and he could not give)
a life
beyond the
(bowl)

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

They lay quiet, legs wound carelessly around and between; arms slung over waists and shoulders, fingers smoothing and caressing and reveling in the simplicity of touch. That’s me, that’s you, that’s us. Nothing needed to be said, only the deep pleasure of soaking each other in. Eyes heavy-lidded, breathing slow and content. Lazy kisses. Sunlight and shadow dappling over their skin in bars of dusk and gold through wooden-slatted windows and afternoon light.

But afternoons like that don’t ever last.

I wished for flight.

I wished for an unbearable lightness of being. I wished for enlightenment, that I might understand.

I wished for a weekend to do with as I choose.

I wished for flowers to tuck behind shell-like ears, blossoms to set off chestnut hair.

I wished for an end to pain. I wished that all who ache might find relief.

I wished for peace.

I wished for a love that would set my heart on fire.

And I wished, and I wished, until the moon came out and grinned coldly above my head, and I began to shiver in the chill night air.

And I wished.