I love you in so many ways.With the surprise of a child discovering an early Christmas present in May.With the altruism of a true friend enjoying your success.With the teenager’s thrill of the first touch and the first kiss and the lover’s shivers while exploring your naked body.With the promise of joined fingers. Of touching and trembling knees, fingers playing in the hair.Of eyes building bridges of sight and talking more than mouths.Chest pressed upon chest and ribcage trying to blend into the other’s.Fingertips imprinting memories of skin, of scalp,of pulse. Taste buds tasting the other’s familiar taste and nostrils inhaling the unique scent. Goosebumps forming on arms and heartbeats racing with time.I have loved you with difficulty,with fear,with shame,with hope.With childishness and the serenity of older age,as I mingled my legs into yours and my arms around, my fingertips on the contour of your lips. My hair loved you when it caressed you and so did my thighs around your waist. My ears became addicted to the sound of your laughter. With the innocence of a teen girl, I smiled and exhaled my love like an acrobat,hoping you would catch me. In your love I bloomed smiles I didn’t know I had,or could or ever would. I counted sunrises and sunsets and named them with kid’s names,like a mother. I possessed you and played like a wife and protected like an elder sibling. The puzzle pieces finally fell into place and some sort of an image of future emerged.
My love like a family tree…
My love grew roots inside. And I’m afraid that if I remove them,I will die.
I’m not a constant churchgoer. Maybe because I feel I don’t need a special building to talk to God. I talk to Him daily. Or, I just don’t like going to church on a schedule, as a “have to”,”to be seen there” or other social “gatherings”.I go because I want to be there and nowhere else. As simple as that.Yet, that centuries old building has been a safe place,especially since the past times have shaken my beliefs of right and wrong, protection and abandonment. And since desperate times give birth to strange deductions, an unusual feeling of personal message shaped itself in the Sunday services attended. It is weird but also comforting as,amongst the teachings I know so well already, there comes a line which fits exactly my prayers uttered beforehand,some sort of neon code on a fully written page,striking in its sole relevance to me. A soothing message of intimate divine care,spoken by a messenger who knows nothing of my personal struggle,who sees my smile of youth and professionalism,nothing more. And is gently fooled,like all the others….And there,inevitably, come the words, so adequate and parental, as if God himself would wipe my cheeks clean. How selfish is to believe this? How childish? How vain to assume such a divine grace? And, above all, how desperate?
“Ask forgiveness from those whom you have hurt, whose life you have shaken and altered irremediably. And answer to the hurt and pain with love.”
Crying silently in a crowded church, I do.