Wish

Falling for Love by Rothya James I can hear the wind whistle through my hair. The force of the rushing air distorts my face into a silly grin and create slits for eyes to tear from. I’m free as a bird and on my way to find my girl. It will be a long and solitary journey, but the end result is the true love of my life. I can’t wait. It all started when I lost my Mary. I always thought such a common name for the extraordinary woman she was made the whole match an oxymoron. She was beautiful. Raven blue-black hair cascading around cat-like green eyes that could be taken for emerald gems. Her eyes were set above a delicate straight nose and a small cleft in a strong chin. She had clear porcelain skin with the slightest hint of blue veins along the lean parts of her body. They looked like faint tiny rivers, and I spent many hours running my hands along the undercurrents of that snow-white, pillow-soft texture. With an hourglass figure exposing hips that outlined the small of her waist and a length to her legs that made her five-eight frame seem taller than she was, she caused a vision one would swear belong to a Greek Goddess. Her breasts were full and firm with silver dollar nipples painted in a dark brown tone. The contrast of her nipples to her skin equaled the contrast her raven black hair made. Nude, she was mesmerizing. Not from this world. She was a genuine dream come true, and the best part of it all was that she loved me. I loved her too. There were countless reasons to love her. The crooked little smile that always appeared after a quirky observation; she had a long, slow curve at the nape of her neck where I lingered with numerous kisses. There was an impetuous glint in her eye that would build when she wanted to make love. Her laugh would sing in your ear and make your heart race, leaving you with an eagerness and thirst to listen for more. Mary had a quality to her voice that was like no other. It was deep, throaty and sensual and from it sprang opinions and truths I’d never heard or read about. Revelations that brought clarity to the world and implemented an understanding and appreciation never imagined before. The talents she was endowed with, her affinity for the arts, her keen incisive wit, her indomitable intellect that shined through at party conversations and in her work. Those cute little notes she would leave and they were always found in a part of the day I needed them most. Her love of life and beauty, the constant energy she possessed and the inquisitive nature she used to express it; her worst day was a good day for me. She was the purpose I drew breath, the object of what I wanted. All that came to an end when she was killed. We went on a ski trip and were sliding along on the side of a mountain when an avalanche rolled down on us. I managed to stay above the snowline and quickly got free to look for her. I dug for what seemed like eternity with frantic tears staining the snow I tossed away. It was as if time stood still; only my hands and snow I shoveled seemed to move, and it moved in slow motion. Finally, I found her. It was too late. She was all crooked like her smile – only broken and lifeless. From that moment on, my life became an empty voyage. I see faces in windows watching me glide by. They all have eyes big with shock and their fingertips are covering mouths wide open with awe. A long line of cars snaked through the city streets and left people on corners watching it go by with that same dumbfounded look. Droves of folks came to pay their respects and the image the procession composed, with its stream of cars and headlights, was a testimony to how beloved Mary was. It was the blackest day of my life. Her funeral took place on a clear, sunny afternoon – another testimony. I carried a heavy burden after that. It had weight and substance, and it harnessed me in a dark cloak of grief. Hours slipped into days and days migrated to months while the daily drone that life produces swept me further from the sunny afternoon I said goodbye and the sharp ache I felt inside that day. Eventually I became trapped, locked in my own isolated prison. I had no family close by and all my friends belonged to Mary and myself. They were couples, and I was now single. It was a natural course of events for them to fade away in my life. By degrees, I was left alone with my thoughts and memories of Mary. I couldn’t bear living in the house I shared with her so I sold it and moved into a loft downtown. I hoped to change my life with a different lifestyle but found it was me who needed to change. Well over a year had passed since Mary was lost and the cloak of grief I wore had lightened, but it still had a haunting presence. That’s when I saw her. She was across the street in a neighboring apartment, and I could see her through my loft window, twirling around in a summer dress with a glass of white wine. Her gaiety and grace instantly reminded me of Mary, and when I looked closer I realized there were many more uncanny similarities. Her jet-black hair bounced around on white linen shoulders, and my heart jumped when I thought it was Mary. From that moment on I spent my idle time watching the girl in the summer dress. I would come home from work, turn out the lights and turn on some music, sit down in my big easy chair and look across the way toward her bright window. It was like my own personal television with one channel on the screen. The “Mary Is Alive” show. It wasn’t long before I bought a big brass spyglass – the kind a pirate would use. It sat on a tall brass tripod with long wide legs. That’s when I viewed her like I had a front-row seat. I could see her features, familiar to Mary’s - and like Mary’s, her green eyes danced when she laughed. There were times when I felt embarrassed and ashamed at what I was doing, but the sheer joy it made in my life would always counter those thoughts. Besides, what harm could it be if this private world where a tiny version of Mary existed took me closer to what I never lost, the love I felt for her. If it fabricated so much color in my life and it never really hurt anyone, how could it be so wrong? Each night I dropped everything to peer through my spyglass. I would observe this other world, one in which my beloved lived, and somehow breathe a little easier. I looked into the peephole and watched for hours like I was monitoring a snow globe. A tiny little world magnified by glass. I couldn’t hold it or shake it around, but I didn’t need the snowflakes to cast a spell on my view of that world. Then suddenly she was gone. I came home to find several men taking her furniture out the door. She moved. Moved and now vanished from my life. It was an unveiling that was too painful to live with. I walked around in a fog for days, my mind reeling from the sudden vacancy my existence now had and the banal subsistence I was relegated to. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep; the only thing I thought about was Mary. I had to find her again. My mind had been spinning with musings of her, until this morning when I woke up and the fog dissipated into one perspicacious assessment. I realized through a leap of faith I could join her. So I took the plunge. And now that I’m falling for love, I have no regrets. In fact, I’m ecstatic over the idea I’ll soon be with Mary. I know the love we shared will act as a compass to guide me to her. I know she’s waiting for me. I know we will soon be together for eternal bliss. Faces once again appear in the windows I fly by. They’re all aghast at my descent while their eyes watch me plummet to my end. Or beginning. The ground is coming at a faster pace now, and a multitude of faces are looking up at me while I fall. They look like baby birds waiting to be fed, their mouths open and necks stretched to see my landing. I can make out individuals in the crowd, and in the last seconds I’m able to find the girl in the summer dress. For a fleeting moment I wish I could thank her. My eyesight shimmies from the raging rush. The street before me has turned from a silver thread to a huge gray wall. It won’t be long before Mary and I… ©Rothya James Patterson