xeryfyn's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Februarium: Part 3: When You've Loved There is a line from a Disney movie, a line from a song that sings to me in quiet times, in times of desperation, in times of intoxicated joy. "When somebody loved me, everything was beautiful..." It would be incorrect to say that my best loved times have been in relationships of the romantic inclination. Sure, there have been passing moments of sheer infatation, of fearful devotion, of lingering adoration, but love? No I think love only ever happened twice in romantic relationships. The first and the last. The rest, passing love, is inconsequential. But the forever deep abiding kind of love, the kind that burned red hot in the ashes of life, that sustained me through rough patches and smooth sailing: when I was loved by my friends. Even now, many years late, the sharpness of love still pricks me with its barbs. Unrequited love. Love that has lingered after friendship has passed away. Is it possible to love someone after friendship has faltered, after pain has been dealt, after abandonment is all but complete? Oh yes. I suppose it is somewhere along the lines of obsession that makes that love unwavering. The essence of forgiveness is that love is everlasting and true, even when words and deeds proclaim otherwise. She was my best friend. My world. My life. Her smile was my sunshine and her laughter, my balm. Her sorrow, my stormy nights, her hatred, my grave. And though I have moved into worlds where I can love others, where love has made me into a mother, a wife, an angel, a friend. I still love her. And I always shall. There are those who cannot believe that she is worthy of love, that I should abandon her to the dustiness of memory. And, indeed, most days she does not occupy the front burners of my mind. but in the lateness of the night, in the tiny hours of the morning, she creeps out to greet me, forgiveness in her smile, reconciliation on her lips. And then it dies away. A dream. A fantasy. There have passed between us more years apart than together. Some days when she is more wish than real, I find it difficult to remember the times we've laughed together, sung together, talked together. I recall the arguments, the explosions that drove us apart, the sorow, the grief. And I know it is all for the best. But I love her still. It occurs to me, now, that I am free to love her because of the fantastic support of my other friends, my true friends, those who love me back. And perhaps, I love them all the more for the freedom that they unwittingly loan me to love her without regret. As I sit here, I can see her. She is with me in that island of my darkest night. We are sitting on a beach, surrounded by shells, crashed and shattered upon the rocky beachfront. We look out onto the water and feel the infinite possibilities, break some bread and have communion with one another and, in doing so, touch the face of Pure Love. I retreat from that space to the clattering of hthis keyboard, to the soft breath of my husband nearby, the hum of my daughter in her crib I look around at the snapshots of love, captured. And I see that I am lucky. For somebody loves me, and, suddenly, I'm beautiful. 1:05 a.m. - 2/12/2003 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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