This will be a part of a 5 part series that I’m going to release over the next several weeks. It’s meant to be a simple portrait on how love can happen anywhere, anytime, and in any fashion. Also, the more places you go, the more likely you are to encounter this phenomenon.
The first time, I was sitting on the damp, overexposed stones of a fountain. A golden man loomed over my head while the rain dripped slick down his body onto mine. I was 16.
The grey blanket of clouds shrouded us from the pure blue of Heaven’s gaze as I perched there basking between the shelter of his legs. As I waited for some sign for the rain to let up, I huddled my arms around me like broken wings, shivering in the March breeze; it’s fickle mood seeming to vacillate unendingly between a caress and a reprimand of my choice to migrate into this unfamiliar climate.
As humanity pulsed around me I sat and waited. For what else does one do at 16 except wait and suck at the leftover marrow of the experiences of their elders. How else can you expect to learn but through the osmosis of watching? To learn the art of living I did just that. I watched.
I gazed through the haze of thick smoke trailing from my smoldering white widow and the mist of the March rain.
To my amazement my vigil ended just as abruptly as it had started. “Why,” said my foggy brain and my even foggier glasses, “should I sit outside and watch when I could ease my way inside, into the fray, and touch the fringes of the life that pulsed all around me?”
I looked up at the man who offered a golden shelter and took my flight down the slick staircase onto the silent stones that guided the masses of humanity with their somber, steady forward progress .
I followed them. I knew I was home.