Keep in mind that my writings are written to be read out loud as well as to yourself. I hope you like it.
Please comment at the end with any feedback or suggestions.
I’ve
Been Waiting for so Long
When I was little, love was pink. The soft, gentle pink of
my mom kissing my forehead even after I had spit out my carrots on her lap just
moments before. It was the pink of her letting dad hug her when he got home
from work, even though the rank scents of gasoline and oil clung to his skin
and invaded hers as they touched.
The
pink crayons that all of the little girls in my class used to fill in hearts
with as they dreamily doodled on their spelling tests- it was that pink. Love was mamas and papas
caring about each other and about me. That was as far as my underdeveloped, cartoon-obsessed
mind ever bothered to wander on the subject. Love was pink. It was so pretty.
When I became
a big, bad junior high kid, love wasn’t pink anymore. It turned red. And green.
And gray. A dismal Christmas of jealousy and awful aloneness.
During
those years love was so fiery red that it burned my fingers. I would
involuntarily recoil whenever I got close to it, then I would hang my head in
self-pity. I was a scruffy-looking housecat, trying to fit in with a zoo full
of tigers—who all seemed to have mates.
During
that time I liked this girl. I thought she liked me. Then she made out with my
best friend. A lot. Was I bitter?
Love
was green. So was I. But it was still red.
Junior
high love was a cloud that separated the cool from the uncool, a thick gray
cloud that caused a lot of rain to fall from peoples’ eyes. This love thing, that
everyone else seemed to have, caused me to have an ashen stare whenever my
friends complained about their dramatic, wonderful
relationship problems. I was painfully aware that I was just a single philanthropist
to them.
What do
you get when you mix fiery red, downcast green, and overcast gray? The dark
rust color of the bricks that stack to form my junior high, that’s what. How
quaint.
Junior
high was rough. High school was better.
I
painted a mask of confidence, put it on with superglue, and threw away those
dark December days. I may even have kicked that stupid building— just out of
spite. I was done with love. Love was not done with me.
I met
her eyes for the first time sophomore year. Eyes that wouldn’t, couldn’t ever
hurt me. And every time I closed my eyes I saw her face, just as my friends had
described to me through all the gray.
She
didn’t live close by. Neither of us had a cellphone. We asked our librarians
how to use this dusty technology called email, and that was how we communicated.
Back and forth: one long, heartfelt message each day.
Almost
two years passed. Our conversations were on and off. She had other boys during
that time. I never had another girl. We found ourselves stargazing. I finally
stole her hand. I finally stole her lips. Love broke out of its rust colored
cocoon. It emerged with glistening wings, but I didn’t see its color at the
time because my eyes never left hers.
Looking back, I think that love was a glimmering blue at
that moment. A bright blue that could’ve had a bright future. As time passed, though,
it slowly dulled and faded. Her eyes never did hurt me. I just never nurtured that
love enough for it to fly.
It got worn out. A haggard blue. Haggard like when you run a
mile in the biting wind and you can’t breathe. Your vision gets spotty, and you
have to catch yourself on the railing before you collapse. Your lungs burn through
the ice in your diaphragm and you cough for a much longer time than it took you
to run that mile. You reach that point where you can’t physically run any
further.
Haggard
blue lasted for a long time. A few times I almost ran again, but my heart was
never into it. You can become afraid to run again sometimes when you’ve reached
that point.
After blue,
love became clear. Colorless and lost. Something I could never wrap my arms
around, something that my hands went right through whenever I tried to discover
it again or feel its shape.
Recently,
I discovered what color love truly is.
It was
a quiet, warm night in O’Fallon, Illinois when a thoughtful friend of mine,
aptly named Harmony, introduced me to a music album named “The Broken Bride” by
a band called Ludo. The album has five songs, including four songs that tell a
story of a man who is trying to save his wife’s life. The first time I listened
to the album I enjoyed the sounds. The second time I listened to the album I
grew from the words.
“I’ve
been waiting for so long, to touch you and sleep in your eyes. And now as my
heart’s beating so hard, I hold on, and keep you at home in my arms.” I heard
these lines and wondered, “Well, just how long has he been waiting?” The way it
was said, it seemed so heartfelt to me.
I had
never paid enough attention to follow the details of the story before. I looked
up the lyrics to answer my question.
Fifteen
years.
It was
in the first line of the first song. After his wife perished when she was in a
car accident on her way to work, her husband dedicated the next fifteen years
of his life towards building a time machine so he could go back in time and
stop her from leaving the house on that fateful morning in May.
Fifteen
years.
I kept
reading.
He
successfully builds a time machine, but as he sets off something goes wrong and
he ends up in the Jurassic age. He is chased into a claustrophobic cave by
velociraptors. He is sure he is going to die. He writes his beloved wife’s name
on the wall, and goes out to face them. He is willing to risk being torn apart
to get back to his time machine to try again to reach her.
At this
point I couldn’t pull my eyes off of the screen. I was captivated by this story
of pure devotion.
Blood. He
is injured, but reaches his machine. This time his machine jerks forward,
dragging him to the end of time. The world is in an apocalypse. The people have
no hope, they are simply waiting for “The Dragon” to come and destroy their
city, consume their families and themselves. “The Dragon” comes; the people
have no way to fight back. They are being burned. The protagonist in the story
sacrifices everything. He uses his machine to kill the dragon, he knew that it
would destroy his machine, but he did it anyways.
Angels
come to him as he weeps. They can’t understand why “his heart still screams” when
he has just saved an entire civilization. He explains that he just wants to
tell his wife goodbye. He knows that he can’t change her history. He just wants
one more day with her. “That morning in May.”
The
beings have compassion on him and use their power to send him to his chosen
date. What follows is the last song in the album. The song is love. The love is
white.
He
walks through the quiet house, finds her upstairs asleep. He is overwhelmed
with emotion. Those lines, “I’ve been waiting for so long, to touch you and
sleep in your eyes. And now as my heart’s beating so hard, I hold on, and keep
you at home in my arms.” Mean so much more to me now.
She
wakes up, for her it’s just a normal morning. Before he can stop her she is out
the door in her car, heading to work. He runs, catches up to the car, knocks on
the window and says: "Baby, I thought I'd come along for the ride.” He will
die with her. He can’t be without her again.
The song ends with a slightly altered chorus:
I've
been waiting for so long.
Time slows, and I take your hand.
To touch you and sleep in your eyes.
I hold you as we lose control.
Together our hearts beating so hard.
Hold on, baby we're almost home.
Together. I realize that his love,
true love, is white.
White like when you’re under water
and you see delicate rays of sunlight rippling in front of you. It is holding
your breath and reaching for those rays, doing even more than you think
possible, to be stayed— forever— in their protective warmth.
All I know is that this is what I’m
reaching for. All-encompassing white.
Anyways, tell me what you think, and here are the links to the four songs that make up the story.
