Lover Come Home Ch. 12byRoseMontana©
Friday, fall in the air, finally
Yesterday's letter was hard, though I am committed to telling you, as I never have, my side of our story. When you come home, will you please tell me yours? We can then laugh and cry at how our same story differs. Our misperceptions, misreadings, misunderstandings. And then it will be our story too. I want nothing separate from you.
Today's letter is going to be a good one. The following is a memory, for us to enjoy again. Isn't the mind and time wonderful? We can live our lives over and over, if we so desire. Nothing is finished, over with, or gone, as long as it is not forgotten. Time comes back to us, like the waves on the lake, if we remember.
Remember that first winter together when I caught some wretched illness and was like a zombie? I knew for the first time what old age must feel like. I had no strength and parts of me hurt for no apparent reason. Everything was an effort.
I would have to gather all my strength just to walk to the living room in the morning. It seemed to take me a long time, I was so wobbly and weak. To sit in the sun for the rest of the day was worth it. I would just sit there, gathering up the sun's strength like a stone. When you came home you would carry me back to bed, feed me hot soup, and worry over me abit. It was only a bad winter flu, I would recover eventually.
On the third or fourth day of my illness you came home so tired that you crawled into bed with me. Whispering the day's injustices and difficulties, you stroked my face and then my breasts. Slowly, I did the same to you. I was burnt with fever, you with the world.
You were different. Instead of feeling your skin, or the warmth of it, or your desire strengthening under my hand, I was touching something else. My fingers, the palm of my hand, were on you, but not only on your body. Your skin was a thin shell that covered a damaged, tender heart. My hand had become a passageway. Can I say I felt your soul? I have no words to describe how I knew this, or what it really felt like. Your body was still familiar and warm, as always. But I was in touch with something other than your physical self. Not emotions, not attitudes or opinions or ego. The bedrock. The bones of your existence, came up and touched me, my bones, through my fingers.
Perhaps it was the fever.
Your hands slid down my body and began taking its measure. Like a blind man, your hands were memorizing my waist, the roundness of my hips, the flatness of my thighs, the length of my legs. Finally, with all that knowledge, you decided to devote yourself to one small part of me. The researcher, looking for an area to become expert in.
The inside of my leg became your area of specialization. Your hand moved up and down, changing the angle or the hardness or the direction of each stroke by just the slightest amount. And as I had read your heart by the way your skin felt in my hand, I knew you too were touching something even more private than my so-called private parts.
When your finger circled my lips, my lower lips, I began to shudder. I was sweating with fever and icy with anticipation. My body seemed to implode inside itself. I came so suddenly I was taken by surprise. There was none of the usual tightening, tension, heart beat. I just opened up and came, in your hand. My body, my self, which had been disappearing a moment before, arched up, pulsed, and came flowing out.
Now I understand why big flower paintings are said to be sexual. The Georgia O'Keefe ones. It isn't the obvious thing that they look like genitals. When I came that night I felt like my entire being was unfurling like a flower, and blooming out of my vagina. Nothing was left inside, nothing was closed or was only a bud, not yet ready to be seen. I had opened.
I could see your face only faintly, my eyes were glazed. I was ready to sleep, to fade away. There was nothing left, I thought.
You thought otherwise. Your hand, that just a moment before had cupped over my vagina, holding it steady in its cataclysms, began to search again. Again, around the lips, and just a little inside, around my body's bud, the one that vibrates.
I was too weary to be astonished, or even say anything. I could only open my eyes to look in your face with an unspoken question. Your unspoken answer was a soft smile of confidence. You knew what you were doing. I should let you do it.
I did. And came again. A rolling wave, high but not crashing. I just rode to shore on its edge, floated in, but did not reach land. Instead, I was swept out to sea and then came again. The new wave was lower, but longer. And when it ended, another wave took its place. I just rode them, a surfer or a swimmer, part of the wave.
Later I wished I'd been able to count, but that clearly was impossible. The waves were all there were for me to do and be. They and I came and came and came.
I remember trying to speak, and being unable to say what ever question I had. You knew the answer,
"That's the way it's supposed to be."
And it is.