Last week had the markings of a really crappy week. First of all most of everyone started by walking around with goofy smiles, migraine causing red flares, and flowers. The rest, they bitched. I joined them, well, not because I hate love [hic], but because I absolutely hate that love has been reduced to a commercial boon day and that on a day when some poor guy died a cruel death.
But that was not as huge as the pneumonia. I know. My friends always complain when I tell them about the horror after the fact rather than during. What’s the point of dragging you into my personal twilight zone when you could be busy working and making money to take me for that coffee, or to buy me that really cool laptop I want. Tehee! Expensive bitch friend from hell. Besides, I spent 3/4 of the time on the floor puking my guts out because I reacted badly to the meds. You really don’t want to be puking when you have pneumonia. ‘Pain’ doesn’t quite cover it.
One of the horrors of long distance love, is that sometimes you are in an ‘God I don’t want to die alone’ moment, and you realize that although you have everyone else around you; some even unwanted, the one person whom you’d want to be next to you right then, is a few hundred kilometers away. And then there’s the usual me who sometimes wakes up and wants to go through hell without any witnesses. Trust me, when your tummy is running a hundred miles a minute you really don’t want anyone watching.
Poor GB, how he even figures out what I want, or need I just have no idea. And sometimes, like this past week, he figures out that although I want to be left alone to puke my guts out, I actually need someone to watch reruns of ‘How I met your Mother’ with and to read verses from Khalil Gibran’s poetry.
And a poet said, “Speak to us of Beauty.”
Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her unless she herself be your way and your guide?
And how shall you speak of her except she be the weaver of your speech?
The aggrieved and the injured say, “Beauty is kind and gentle.
Like a young mother half-shy of her own glory she walks among us.”
And the passionate say, “Nay, beauty is a thing of might and dread.
Like the tempest she shakes the earth beneath us and the sky above us.”
The tired and the weary say, “Beauty is of soft whisperings. She speaks in our spirit…”
No I don’t need to perfect, and strong, and brave, all the time. Sometimes, I’ll give up my halo, and lie on the floor puking my guts out. He’ll hold my hand, while my mother shouts from the other room that he should convince me to try and drink the horrid tasting soup. And then when it’s over, at least for the time being, he’ll clip on my wings for me and watch me soar, again.
What I’d like him to know, and I think I tried to say it rather ineffectively [hey, I have a gift with written words, not spoken ones] is that I’ll be there when his halo falls off. I’ll hold his hand until its time for him to clip on his wings and fly. And when he flies, I’ll be the loudest cheering voice of them all. Just like he has been for me all these years.