WOBL in Training

To those who question my sanity, my husband has read and approved this post.
I was talking with a friend about ex’s and then another friend about trips and ex’s and yet somebody else about love and lovers, and thusly this post was born.

I count myself very lucky I have loved and been in love three times. This post is about love number two.

I met him on a Thursday. He was the only guy at the poetry reading wearing a suit. I thought that was odd. Turns out he worked for a law firm, he always came straight from work. When I remember when we met, I remember his smile. It was bright and eager. He was the brother of a friend who I thought the world of. She was not the type to do hook ups, he was not easily deterred. I made her a cheesecake for her birthday, his was the day after. That became his angle, ‘What did he have to do to get his own birthday cheesecake?’ I was young and freshly wounded. I had never really been pursued before. I was pleased by the attention.

He came to another poetry reading the next day. Turns out his best friend had been my mentor when I was a teen. Which helped me let my guard down, as I trusted my mentors opinion and he held him in high regard. My steps were not as sure as I would have liked, I believed all the things the first one said when we ended. I was busy licking my wounds, tending to my healing trying to figure out what was truth and lie about the love I had lost. I questioned everything, ripped my self to shreds, what little the first one did not destroy on his way out of my love. I did not believe I was any of the things I was raised to be. Did not believe in the very core of who I was. I questioned my very woman-ness.

He did not.

He was smart, and older, had four or five college degrees. Was studying to be a lawyer. Loved to learn. His family was Nigerian, he was the son in a old world traditional sense. He was as sons should be. The one you call to fix pipes and repair things. Just a touch of my father in him, enough to peak my interest, enough to give me pause and let myself be opened. He told me stories of his family still in Africa, swore my ancestors had to be west African beauties. Understood my reverence for our ancestors. Taught me to appreciate his reverence for my body.

He was also a father. To a very handsome boy who was seven or so, and a girl who was two. He was an excellent father. Firm but gentle with his son, loving and indulgent with his daughter. Very involved. To the point we barely had time for one another.

Yet and still he found the time to love me.
I could see it in his eyes every time he looked at me.
He was the first time I was ever loved completely, unconditionally.

He did love me to my very core. He was not interested in fixing me, that was my job. He was okay with my boundaries, respected and encouraged them. He was only after my time. If I had an hour between class and the gym, or an hour after work before the poetry set he was grateful to have me spend it with him.

My fondest memories of our time we would discuss his studies, debate theological points, sit in silence together. We wrote poetry together - he was honest in his critiques, though he loved to find himself in my work. I would lay on his couch in my favorite sun dress, too tattered for wearing outside and he would hold my feet and he would listen to me heal myself. When I had made enough progress on what ever laceration had been pressed he would soothe my weary spirit, build me back quietly without great fan fair. Remind me who I told him I was, remind me of the woman he knew I was, wanted, pursued, desired. Said it all matter of factly as if he was telling me the sky was blue, or I had five fingers and toes.

We went on dinner dates out of state. Had midnight meals in my cramped one bedroom apartment. I wanted to be for him what he was for me. A safe place to rest. He would come after spending long days studying for the bar, leave his briefcase by my door and sleep in my office. We were very careful about what we said to each other. It was in this kind of unguarded moment that he told me he loved me, as if everything else hadn’t made it apparent.

As if saying it made it any more real or solid, but it does doesn’t it?

We ended not too long after. Not that I didn’t love him. I did, and told him so, but things are rarely as simple as we would like them to be. He wanted me to be all about our great love, but - I was healing still, and scared. It was a lot -fast, that love. I was young. At that point I was 23 and had only dated one boy, only slept with the one boy. Had only loved one boy. He was my first man. Which is a totally different beast.

Then the idea of saying THIS IS IT, was too much so fast. He took my fear for uncertainty and thought I was still in love with the first one. He almost convinced me I was, almost. He loved me enough that he thought it made him too vunerable. It did, he offered me everything he had and my heistation scared him as much as the possibility scared me. In his panic he pushed me towards the ex. We had other issues that gave me pause but he never gave me a chance to decide if I could work through them, if we could. There was the step mother thing, I wasn’t ready to be a mom, maybe more so I had never concidered the posibility until it all hit the fan. That was the thing, I never saw the end coming. Even in the unraveling, I thought this is a hicup and we’ll get back to where we were, but it never came back.

It didn’t hurt as much as it made me very sad.

I wondered sometime after if I had been too cavalier with his feelings, rather if he felt that way, because he wanted a serious steady permanant thing, and I was twenty three. I hope he never felt that way because I took him ever so seriously. With him I learned a lot about who I wanted to be to whom ever I decided to love. How I wanted to love, and how I wanted to be loved.

Funny thing was we were only together for six months but in that short time he gave me so much more than I ever could have given him. I don’t know if I ever thanked him. Sometimes in the night while my family is sleeping I do think of him and thank him, and am grateful for it all because with out him I never would have been ready for Jerry.

I wanted to remember this here so one day when my daughter comes to me to tell me about this man that she cares for, who adores her and if it doesn’t work out I will remember to tell her great love does happen more than once. It is not this elusive thing that only happens in movies and songs. It is not limited to the ink that flows from poets, and hides in the poetry in my closet. You just have to remember that a rose bush is mostly two feet of leaves, stems, and thorns not just three inches of rose petals.