It took me while to garner the courage to break the seal of the letter. I was terrified it was going to overly complicate things- it was rural and professional all at the same time. I sat, pondered, over-analyzed what it might say. I always read the salutation and then lept immediately to the last line or two of a letter, so I can know how it ends. If you know how something ends, how something is going to end, it changes everything regarding how your present actions are carried out. Vision produces patience, legitimizes longevity. Well, it was a happy ending, to say the least. A memory was triggered in medias res. This wasn’t just any memory. My mind began to head down the rushing river that was the night of March 24th. Maybe we do in fact have the same thought process about things. I couldn’t start assuming that though; that would be the end. The climax of this trip down memory lane was identical to the final pit stop this letter took, the concluding thought, before it went back in the envelope.
It was a stormy night. I love bad weather. Lightning lit up the night on several occasions as if it were high noon, or Mother Nature’s excitement about Anne finally wanting to hold my hand- she didn’t know us that well, so that’s projecting. I also don’t believe in Mother Nature- I was a Presbyterian. There is the elementary, fairy tale idea in every girl’s mind that being kissed in the rain is one of the necessary steps to love; without this experience, you might as well get a desk job and prepare for lonely nights filled with ice cream, red wine, and romantic comedies. I am sure that Anne wouldn’t have minded it, and I know I would have enjoyed it- I am just a cynic towards it because I have never had the opportunity to sweep a girl off of her feet like that. I thought twice about it, and selfishly chose to opt out and enjoy the storm with her. This was a first- she reached out for my hand. It was sweaty as I held it. Either it took that much courage to grab my callused hand or the humidity outside the room permeated in- the pressure on the inside must have been less than that of the storm.
Music has a way with people. For some an escape, for some a love language, for some an art form, and for some a relational Bible. For me, music was vision inducing; it applied to my life and explained my thoughts more eloquently that I ever could. We were listening to the new Justin Vernon record as rain fell on the tin roof. An event like this was hallowed in my mind, right up there with seeing my wife and child waiting on me. When “Skinny Love” began to play, we both ceased conversing, channeling our curiosity to the bon iver. I think we listened to the song on repeat for nearly an hour. It was funny having to try and find the spot on the record to place the dial to start at the beginning of the song. Anne was better at things like this than I. The best thing about music is that the same song, the same lyric, the same melody resonates with different people in different ways. I knew there was a special place in her soul for this song, and I didn’t know why.
From time to time we will sit in silence until the other one knocks on the door of our mind. It is “our thing”- a few taps on the temple signals “let me in to what is going on up there”. It’s beautiful. I could never call it “beautiful” in front of Anne, because she treats her words with reverence that doesn’t allow for words such as “beautiful” to be overused. It was beautiful though, no matter what she says.
I said please talk to me/Won't you please come talk to me/Come on, come talk to me/I did not come to steal/This all is so unreal/Can you show me how you feel now/Come on, come talk to me/Come talk to me, come talk to me
Anne was reminded of her father, and of the brokenness that laid there between their love for one another. She was holding all the tickets, while he owed all the fines. I wanted to cry for her as she was not ready to take that big of a leap into vulnerability with me at this point in the game. I understood. The more she talked, the tighter my grip became as I took hold of something I knew that I never wanted to let go of. I knew, I was certain.
She asked why this song had a way with me. I lied. I didn’t lie, I just only told half of the truth as if that was the whole truth. I couldn’t say all of that yet, though I knew she would enjoy it. I smiled as I finished, knowing that one day I would be able to tell her. I also knew something else. I knew that I was going back up to the Mountain for one reason. There was no doubt in my mind; I just had to be patient, I had to be fine with my decision, I had to be balanced; If this “skinny” was going to last, I had to take a risk. So I did. I signed the dotted line the next day.
As I lay in bed, in a room of both old and new friends, I realized that night was a defining moment for me. I knew that I loved a girl. Paul O’Connor loves a girl. I regained my composure. I got to the last line of the letter. I carefully folded the letter, just as she had, and placed it back in the envelope. I put it in my Bible, which lay in my shelf. I now had the strength to make it through another day of training.
“In the morning I will be with you Paul. I will finally be back on top of the Mountain. We will be together.”
The thing about Anne was that she made simple statements that changed the world for me, and she took things that were changing my world and made them simple. I wondered what I was going to say tomorrow. At this point, there is only one thing I want to say. I had been waiting for this day. I had been waiting for tomorrow. I was ready.
No comments:
Post a Comment