Love So Deep Within

Just imagine if we lived in a world without trees. Or imagine that there were no flowers or birds singing in the background of our days. Imagine that the smells of freshness and clean air did not exist. Imagine that the one you love, the one who has been your companion and friend for years on end, it seems forever, has disappeared.
Vanished, gone.
Where? Why? How could this happen?
Sitting here with my love, reading about the Kell’s Manuscript. Talking about the vibrant rare colors and tints used to create the images of life, the history of all that had come before. So wonderful in its hues of ancient colors of blues, gold, yellows, purples, reds and more, and created from inks from the Mediterranean and even from eastern Afghanistan. Did you know that the scribes were brought to the Isle of Nolan off the coast of Ireland in approximately 800 AD, to create and produce the most wonderful and most exquisite book ever in print? The most magnificent manuscript of the Medieval period utilizing insular style, featuring figures of humans, animals and mythical beasts, together with Celtic Knots and interlacing patterns. That the inscriptions were to tell and reveal the history of mankind, through the four Gospels of the Christian New Testament. It was treasured so, that while enduring invasions, and plunder, the scribes worked day and night to complete and savor the pages. Knowing that at any time, the manuscript may be taken away, destroyed, or burned in a torrent of pillaging and war.
Lost forever. But instead, relished to such a great extent, and with great devotion, the manuscript was taken to the mainland of Ireland, then England, and work continued on in Kells. Kells Abbey itself was later plundered many times by the Vikings in the 10th century. And the Book was believed to be stolen, only to be later found with its leather and jewel bound covers gone, ripped away. Remaining pages were found and taken to Ireland for safekeeping, and eventually ended up at Trinity College where they can be found today. Preserved and intact, it is considered one of Irelands’ finest national treasures. Ironically, the Book was never finished.
I have lain in bed, reaching over the sheets, to find only a cold flat surface beneath my hands. Is this what it was going to be like? Maybe I should just lie there and not reach out. Keep faith that that warm body is still and quiet only, and present. I can’t imagine what the inevitable would be like.
No trees, no flowers, no song. Just cold empty spaces. My mind brings me back, now, strength and courage, like a lump in my heart, an ache that carries on. No, sadness here. My love sleeps, resting the body from the havoc from within, the invisible war. Radiation pressing upon the cells to kill them. Kill them all, and weaken them out of existence.
When I got up this morning, way past the regular time, I fed the cats, showered and dressed for the day ahead. The routine was familiar, the same. Make coffee, water plants, straightens up the kitchen. There he is now, just coming in from walking the dogs, “Hey, Good Morning, Sunshine!” falls from my lips. “How’d you sleep, ready for some breakfast? I’m making coffee,” as I plant a kiss upon his cheek.
Pale, quiet, so unlike the man I have always known. Paul, oh how Paul could talk. When we first met, he had this deep, announcer’s voice, sexy as you know what, and yet sounding so confident and self-assured. This man is awesome on the phone. He could sell anything to anyone, or just say hello, and melt your heart. Who is he? A New Yorker, Manhattan style, with fast thoughts, humor and unpredictable humor, that just catches you off guard, making you wonder where in heck you’ve been all your life, how in the world can anyone see things, or imagine things like this? A humor of the most creative mind. A genius with vision for something beyond the humdrum of everyday routine. A way to charm the pants off anyone. What a clever man indeed.
As the music of Gershwin played on the piano with a backup of jazz, the place decorated in the maroons and mauves of the time, along with shining black accents, crystal chandeliers, and roses for the ladies, I saw him for the first time. I don’t know why, but my head turned toward the entrance, a few steps up from the carpeted lounge and dance floor, he was just standing there at the door. Scoping the place I guess. He wore one of those brown corduroy jackets, with the leather patches on the elbows, khaki pants, much too northern for this southern Boca Raton jazz club, After Dark.
I knew right then. He was special. He caught my eye, and my heart at the same time. He walked into the interior and started talking right away, friendly like, just nice. Smile upon his face, sandy colored hair to match his clothes. Really nice smile, and such bright eyes. Focused on a young lady across the room. Small talk, then moving on, again, and again.
I looked at my glass of wine and decided to take a sip, my eyes shifting to my friend Bobbie. My boss’ girlfriend. She’s the one who dragged me out to this place. I hated going to places like this. If it weren’t for the band, Copeland Davis, I wouldn’t have come. I had heard Copeland for the first time in Palm Beach at the Brick Balloon, then again on Cape Cod… he played the piano like a magician. His background in classical and jazz stood out. He could have been a rising star. Amazing music man.
Bobbie and I talked. I remember saying to her, “See that guy over there? I’m going to marry him someday.” I just knew it in my heart. I knew it more than anything; our souls had touched in some strange way. Doubting myself and these strange thoughts, I went back to the music, lost myself in another glass of wine and more time sitting there. I had dismissed all those thoughts, and let them go.
Later though, I looked up to see this guy in the corduroy jacket sitting next to me. He told me he was a writer from New York and that he had been working on a Novel called Rogue’s Gallery. All about these stupid inventions people had made in the 18th century, but somehow, made me laugh just imagining them. He told me about his apartment in New York, and the turtles that he bought for his fish tank that turned into dinner plates in a matter of months, and how he had to sell them to a Chinese friend for soup, because they kept escaping, and came out of hiding only to scare the dickens out of his guests. Then he talked about the blow fish that welcomed him home from work every day by blowing up in his fish tank. And also about the plumber who came to get the blowfish out of his toilet drain, it had blown up in there and clogged the drain. Not too many calls for that in Manhattan. He made me smile for a long time, as I listened. He was adorable, smart, and handsome, oh my!
Next thing I was leaving, and he asked for my phone number. Scraping to find a pen and paper, I began to hand him my number, but held back. I told him, he could have my number, only if he gave me all the other numbers he had collected that evening, that were in his pocket. He agreed. And thus began a long 24/7 journey.