It seems to be an evening for weeping.
My makeup is streaked with tears, my hair rumpled and bed-headed and I would imagine the Hispanic woman next door is equally disheveled. She's been weeping not much longer than myself, which is to say; about two or three hours. She became quite vocal at one point, wailing almost, and I felt nothing but empathy for her, even separated from her as I am by two walls, perhaps forever.
Separated, perhaps, by more than mere walls of sheet-rock and siding.
We have our grief, she and I. I will never know hers but I can always speculate; an unhealthy proposition at best. Will she ever speculate about me, wonder why I wailed as well, earlier?
Perhaps not. Probably not.
Is it love that makes her wail, as it does for me? Love, or absence therof? Absence of presence and a sense of loss and despair? Does she, as I do, feel the pain of not being able to speak, to communicate from the heart and soul and tell of the hollow grief within her? Does she long to be held, as I do, long for that quantum of solace which can only be found in the arms of your beloved?
Wailing is all she has left, this dark and damp night in Portland, Oregon. Wailing and tears.
It's what I have now. That, and my endlessly restless mind and heart, questing after that which I may never have.
But I believe in Love, I do. I always will. I know that it exists, always has and always will, forever and ever, World without end, amen. Does that sound religious? Perhaps it is. There is love and there is Love and I see little difference, as close as I am to it, the forest for the trees, so to speak.
I have it and yet it eludes me. I long for it and it longs for me, love and Love alike and yet we cannot meet. So I weep, alone, in the night.
There is no way anyone of sound mind might ever consider this romantic.
Ah, well. Of such are pop songs great and puerile written and novels magnificent and mundane ground out by the score. (I'm winking at you, Danielle Steel and Babara Cartwright!)Gosh, I could sit down right now and crank out a tearjerker or two myself, either on guitar or this damned computer. Might even make enough money someday to invite Love (or her little sister; love) out for lunch.
Pizza sound good?
Michelle Diane Rose
June 9th, 2010