I remember that it hurt , looking at her hurt
Some of us, the unlucky few, will never know what it is like to feel that way. Too bad , I guess. But this isn’t the case , not for the millions of us who have sat in wooden chairs or church benches, staring at the carpet beneath our feet, hoping, praying to get noticed. Funny, how God will sit in front of us and not say a word.
I remember what she looked like walking down the aisle
I remember sitting in the third row from the front, two people from the aisle. Kate her friend from college, William her uncle from New Hampshire, and me. Her hair was always so dark, just like earth after it rained. The first time i saw it was at one of Kate’s stupid brunch parties. It was noon and if you looked closely the rays of early summer sun would be folding the thin lines of everyones hair. Everyone but her’s. Her’s was untouched, growing darker the longer I stared. She came and sat right across from me.
I remember spending years figuring out what I was going to say
She wasn’t happy. I could tell because I knew what she looked like when she was happy. I even knew what she looked like when she wasn’t . A month after Kate’s party , I worked up the courage to ask her. She smiled. Her eyes glistened. Then she said no. She just started dating Mark , I didn’t know . I was embarrassed she wasn’t. She thought it was cute. I thought she would tell Mark, and that they would laugh about it while laying in bed. I don’t think she ever did. Six months later, the seat across from me was empty at Kate’s party. Her and Mark had driven to her parents for the weekend. When they came back the following weekend, She looked like she had been crying, but she had a ring on her finger . So I didn’t really realise. At her engagement dinner a month later, I found out her mom was terminally ill with colon cancer. While she was telling me what happened, I felt horrible , because the only thing could think about was ‘ how come she was sitting here with me instead of with her fiance.’
I remember that it hurt
Some of us, the unlucky few will settle for the first man that stumbles through the door. We fear that waiting and hoping, will become blankets we rely on for warmth in old age. So we buy the first house we can, take the first job were offered, and and say yes to the first man who asks. Then we stand at the alter, say vows laced with lies. Only to feel empty. To sit in the coat room , in a white gown, bleeding tears out from our eyes.
And men without ears, who will stand by the door just to listen. Hoping that in time they will find the courage to speak, to say.