A
Valentine's Day Tribute To Love
Globe
and Mail, Feb 14, 2002
by
Austin Repath
Like many other men, I have loved a
woman for a great
many years. Like some others, I have had the good fortune to
have
that loved returned. And as best I can without sounding too
sentimental
or maudlin, I’d like to tell you about it.
Just as I
begin, I tell my wife what I am writing about, and she tells me to
include
all the difficult times. I get angry because I want to
celebrate
the good times that stand out against the bad times, and make the whole
thing magical. But that’s just one
viewpoint. Mine.
Already
I can feel myself off on a tangent that is central to our
relationship.
Being a Persephone, willing to live in the dark world, she has no
difficulty
with the dark moment. I, unable to tolerate such depths, want
to
sing of our days in the sunshine.
Let me begin
again. Everyone enjoys a roaring fire, but the fires that, in
my
mind, are best are those that have died down a bit and glow deeply,
giving
off a greater warmth. Which is my way of saying that the
colour
and
light of our romantic years have mellowed into something that is as
rich
and pleasurable as a late summer afternoon.
We sit at
opposite ends of our old comfortable couch, which we should have
replaced
long ago.
I
think of it as sitting in opposite ends of a canoe, distant and safe
from
the wild creatures that prowl the shoreline. We turn off the television
set, refuse to answer the telephone, and talk with each other, of
dreams
the night before, of daytime angst and hurts, and other seemingly
trivial
things. I think of two animals preening each other, combing
the
other’s
fur
and scratching out of reach places.
Sometimes
she reads, and I watch her, happy in her presence. Or, more
honestly
delighting in her presence as I watch her, unobserved. So
simple
a thing, perhaps too
ordinary,
but for me, as I look across at
the row of
candles burning on the mantel over the fireplace, I am truly in love,
and
filled with such a deep contentment and joy that I feel I am about to
become
maudlin.
In bed, of
course, there are intimate moments of pleasure when I feel like a
teen-ager
about to feast on earthly delights. But most times there is
simply
the evening ritual of whispering to the other the question du nuit:
“Huggee
or hugger?” And we fall asleep front to back or
back to
front, depending
on the whim of the moment, and drift off in that bliss of falling
asleep
in the arms of the beloved.
And there
are the not infrequent trips to a local bistro where we enter into the
drama of the rendezvous. I arrive early. Always
early, to
sip
a glass of wine and wait in eager anticipation for her
arrival.
Such
an exquisite waiting! Will she come? Will she be
happy to
see
me? Have I worn the right shirt? The foreplay of
the
rendezvous
is climaxed by her appearance in the doorway. God, what a
beautiful
woman, I think to myself, and rise to greet her with a kiss, to be
rewarded
by her breathtaking smile.
And that brings
to mind her laugh. Such a laugh! I feel like
I’ve won
a lottery
every time I make her laugh.
I know
I need to stop, but I can’t, not now. There are
times, and
I can’t
predict them... Once when we were watching a sunset, I turned to
her.
Once when we were at a wedding, I saw her face.
Once when
she
was weeding in the garden, she looked at me. At those times her
features
take on a radiance, like I am seeing the beauty of her soul. Or is it
simply
the sheer radiance of her being? Or am I seeing her through
the
eyes
of a lover?
For that moment
I know beyond all doubt that I am one of the luckiest men in the world.
I have been blessed with one of life’s greatest
gifts. I
love this
women in ways I was never able to twenty years ago, and somehow I sense
there is still more to this thing called love -- more that will unfold
in the years ahead.
I look up
and there she is standing with beckoning arms, and we dance out through
the kitchen, down the hall and back again. And I am suddenly
transported
back to the old Palais Royale, where I met her -- and discovered we
danced
together like I couldn’t with anyone else.
Austin
Repath's Home Page
email:
thepilgrim@look.ca