March 6, 2008

I’ve only really fallen in love twice.  Once every 13 years on average, if we’re reducing it to a statistic.

The first one died unexpectedly.  And I didn’t love again for quite some time.  Although I had boyfriends.  And, truth be told, when I loved the first I was with someone else.  He and I never dated, the first.  Never kissed.  But we loved each other.  And one night we said things like “There is so much I have to say to you, but not today.”  and “I want to tell you so many things, but I don’t know where to start.”  “Me too.  I know what you mean.”  And then one day he was gone.  Just like that.  A light went out.

The second time I fell in love, although older, I was also much more foolish.  Quite recent.  He was – well, he is – much older, 13 years older, a lawyer, and I met him in a far off land.  I knew it was a terrible decision from the start.  And immediately it was like meeting no one I had ever met before.  He knew the lyrics to every Dire Straits song.  The grandson of a famous Spanish poet.  He knew the scientific names of certain flowers and the history of certain words.  And he told me not to fall in love and then told me I reminded him of clear water – undisturbed.  He told me not to fall in love and I vowed not to – and he told me I reminded him of soap bubbles.  Burbujas de jabon.  And by then I already knew I had lied.

I fell in love this second time with reckless abandon and immaturity that surprised even myself.  Without hesitation or reservation or concern for the well-being of my vital organs.  I told myself I wouldn’t fall in love as I memorized the curve of his body around mine at 3:00 am and the smell of the garden below wafting through the wood-framed windows and the way the night air in Spain smells like orange and yellow – citrus and wood – history and earth.  I told myself I would forget a broken stone on the patio and every word Mark Knopfler ever wrote.

Some days I succeed.

Some days he calls me just to say “Today I found a bottle of perfume that reminded me of you.  I bought it.  But most of it spilled in the backseat of my car.  This is why I haven’t sent it to you.  9 kisses, my dear Amy.  As the song says, I always have you with me.”

Sometimes the biggest lies we tell are the ones we tell ourselves.


One Response to “truths.”

  1. C. Fraser Says:

    Love is a terrible thing. It’s also one of the most beautiful, compelling things we experience.

    “Sometimes the biggest lies we tell are the ones we tell ourselves.”

    Absolutely. It’s hard when you think you love the ones who are bad for you. Then again dealing with situations like that can be good for soul-growth, if you use it properly.

    It’s very brave of you to write about it.

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