Uncle RIPTA
Dear June 30th,
Hot, sticky, and poorly ventilated city buses are no place to find love, nor a comfortable seat to nap in. That summer was particularly bad, and on that day the heat was helping the aroma of body odor to hang in the air, slowly wafting and lingering in my nostrils. Because I worked so much I was always tired and afraid to get too cozy. Missing a connection, although a small inconvenience, was still a real possibility. During one of my bouts fighting off sleep, you walked on to the bus. You were dressed like a cheerleader because it was a Saturday. Our team usually played on Saturday afternoons. You were on your way to go and support the same team that I had led just 12 months before. You had cheered for me in the past, you must have. You sat down near me, and I felt the need to sit up straight.
Our conversation was short, bus conversations are never long enough; our hometown is too small. I'm unsure of what we talked about but I think we traded stories about our days, dreams, and hopes. None of it was too personal, of course, we knew of each other. I had seen you before and heard your voice, but I was still studying you, so many details were new. You were very nice. You were so pleasant even though this was the first time I'd heard you talk about your life. Almost everything about you surprised me; we didn't really know each other after all, but we were nice to one another and avoided awkwardness naturally. Ten minutes later I watched you walk away. I fell asleep after you left.
Your version always takes place much earlier than mine, and you described it as "the time I hit on your friend." I did get her number one day; my bad, but I don't remember seeing you there. I like to think I would have noticed you.
One summer afternoon when I was 17, Preacher and I rode our bikes down Chalkstone Ave. We had no real destination and no obligations. On this day we philosophized and schemed on how to get the things we wanted out of life; how to win, and keep the respect of our mothers. We talked about the future a lot, spending time with dreams that were too far away to take seriously, but also too important to never think of.
"What if you've already met your wife?" he started in, thoughtfully. I slowed my peddling as I tried to figure out what he was getting at. My face gave me away, you know, it always does. He must have noticed because he continued, "What if someone you know currently is the woman you will marry?" I felt the bike begin to lean left as my mind seriously took in his question. "Marry . . .", I mumbled aloud to myself.
My nose and eyebrows crept closer together while I thought of all the women I knew (in reality, it was only like the last six girls I'd last seen, but that was enough). "Hell no," I exclaimed with an even conviction. "That shit is dumb," I said and closed the topic. I saw no way to help his question make sense, so I changed the subject and kept peddling. Someone I already knew? No one had caught my eyes in that way. We came to a hill and stopped talking. We took the slope and sped through lanes of crossing traffic, not waiting for the light's permission.
The first time we were near each other at night, we went to the park overlooking the city, our landmark. The same place you'd take us back to for our anniversary dinner. You were always very good with details and remembering.
Prospect Terrace Park
I couldn't help but stare at your lips, they were shimmering in the golden glow of the streetlights. You had put on too much lip gloss but at least your lips weren't chapped. I knew that you wanted to kiss me. I told myself this because my nerve would evaporate if rejection was possible. My tongue traced the dryness of my own lips. "What flavor is that?" I asked pointing to the lip gloss, "It smells so good. Can I have some?" Your smile told me that you knew what was up from the moment I licked my lips. "It's Cinnamon Vanilla," you said. The sweetness of the smell rose up my nose as you applied the gloss and made that part of me a little smoother.
Three years later, when you went to Ghana and our love was hanging on by threads, I spent most days thinking of how I would marry you. I had to. Every future that I imagined, you were there. I scrolled through pages of impossibly priced Tiffany rings, but I still planned. The question was never one of if, but how. Neither the dollars nor an ocean could stop me. I was your rock and you were my heart.
Only when you were gone did I have the space and motivation to realize that I didn't want to know any more women, not like I did you. This was when I understood that Preacher had been right. The woman I would spend my life with had been supporting me long before I deserved her. The conversation on the bus and the forgotten digits of your friend's number are so poorly kept because memory is unreliable, but they also didn't matter. I can be honest: I don't remember when I met you but I will not forget when I first saw you.
As I closed my eyes, I felt the warmth of your face near mine, you felt very good. Your lips were soft. The night air coated in cinnamon and vanilla, surrounded us. When I took in your image again you looked different. This is when I came to know what love at first sight was about. Beginning that night, I never looked at you the same way again. I knew you were the woman I would be spending and making my life with. Preacher had been right. I was wrong, life hardly goes as we think it will.
Now that it is approaching nearly three years since I last saw you, I can only hope that you are well. I am not sure if forgetting works the same as remembering, but I am afraid it doesn't. There is no such thing as un-knowing a person. We might even hold on tighter to the things that are better off lost. The space between us will soon equal the length of our relationship. I am not sure what this will mark. I doubt it will matter. It was easier when it was just the Atlantic between us. Unfortunately, some things cannot be unseen.
With distance,
MM