Beloved

“So tell me about this girl who stole your heart”
Received: 1:32pm, 06-Nov-09

“Merely a combination of sweet slumber and mental inspiration. A dream. Don’t worry – my heart is kept safe under lock and key.”
Sent: 10:46am, 07-Nov-09

A shoebox, actually. One of those black ones with the pull off lids. A size 7 men’s. It’s a sturdy thing. Solid and unassuming. There is a layer of dust on top that leaves fingerprints when grabbed from the top shelf of the closet. There is a slight suction and a soundless pop when the lid is pulled from the box.

Inside, there is a bag. It fills the whole box, and has torn holes from where sharp edges have pierced it. It’s one of those no-name plastic bags that you get when you buy something not quite worth a proper bag at a drugstore. It was grabbed randomly, in a moment when resolve overpowered emotion but knew it didn’t have long. The bag handles are crimped and tied neatly in a knot.

This is not a movie. This is not a contrivance. This is real life. This is a true story.

The bag handles are carefully undone. They are not to be torn or cut. Inside that bag, there are scraps from a very old and sacred script – even the most annoying knot is to be treated with dignity and respect. The sides are carefully propped open, and there is a hesitation.

There they are.

02 January 2006.

Zachary Webster:
This is my grad picture, picked especially for you. I hope you like it. To be more serious though – I love you. Sharing my life w/ you for these 2 years has been wonderful. All my love – B

A highschool grad photo. The edges crumpled and creased: the result of it being found in a drawer somewhere after a joke about exchanging wallet-sized high school photos. They actually met in university.

July 7th, 2005

My dearest of darlings, my heart of hearts, my dilliest of pickles, my Zachary how are you?

A hand-written letter. There were a lot of those in here. They spent their summers apart. This one was on lined paper, her cursive writing carefully outlining how her life was going.

...Either way, my love, let me part with you by reaffirming my love for you. I love you, Zachary, I love you! I want to jump up & tell & shout it into the wind so that the whole world might know at least a small amount of joy that I feel when I say those sweet, simple words:

I love you.
- B

PS – I Love You was never imaginary to them. It was never an unrealized fiction. It was found. He lived it. There was nothing finer, or more pure. She wrote it in blue and black and green inks. In scrawls and sparkles. He wrote it in silly love poetry. The laughable kind.

The very bestest thing to happen,
Was the day you came a tappin'
When you knocked at my front door,
And gave me love ('cause I was poor)

Now you're the bestest on my street,
The prettiest girl I ever did meet.
And now I'm richer than them all,
'cause you gave a dragon's haul!

The bestest years you gave to me,
You didn't need to, no-siree!
I would've settled for a penny an' a pat,
But instead with love you made me fat!

You made me the bestest ever rug-bug
Ya made my life SUPER snug!
I can't believe it, no way I can!
You're my Very Bestest, B!

They were 19 and 20. Then 20 and 21. But he couldn’t help but be a child in his whimsy. To them, everything felt silly. And silly felt okay. And everything began with

(Undated)

My Love,

...

You are a dream... my dream. I would rather be with no one else in the world. Your company keeps life interesting; your thoughts and words put everything into perspective. You are my best friend, my dream come true.

With all of my heart, your B

All of his heart was kept there. He was nothing, if not true to his word. It’s not that he longed after her now. This was not a shrine to her. The box, and the bag, and the fragments were about love. About them, and who he had been. It was a memory of who he was capable of being.

There was a blank page that she had filled with many “I love you”s written in different languages and colours. Love. They lived there. He spoke it. He went to work and classes with it. He typed email after email about it. And he, true to a lover’s stereotype, wrote lengthy poetry about it.

...And to frame such magnificence that it may be shared,
Into a single word for every care,
Seems almost unfair.
That there can be no better way to say,
All the things that our journey together brings into play,
(And all that it will, come what may)
Than with that word: Love.

Yet still there is more that I would declare,
My happiness.
Ways in which I would compare,
All the moments you’ve made in me.
So that you could taste the picture with my fingertips,
What we have that dazzles me.
Frazzles me.
And if you ask me to speak of this,
I would happily whisper all the writing that is here,
Into the tender blessings of your ear.
And a thousand other thoughts could ensue
Until naught but awe would be my hue,
Over, just how much, B,

I Love You.

There were other items beyond letters, to be found in the box. A silver wrist chain, with his name and his pet name engraved on it. She called him Binx. He called her Smiles. She always wrote out “smiles” on MSN whenever he said something that she liked. He always smiled seeing it there, typed out. She was his Smiles and Sunshine.

There was a wooden spoon and a small framed picture, too. Memories. But the most important of objects was a large book. An album of pictures and little paragraphs that she had put together to commemorate their first year together. There were photos of her, of the two of them, of their friends: stories of their first kiss, their first meeting, and all sorts of small happenstances. It was a collective history that conjured the feelings of the memories it contained. The last remaining relic that was whole.

(Undated)

Zachary –

You have been much in my thoughts these past days. ... Love, you see, is not governed by certain rules that we create for it & ourselves. Love is as free flowing as the sea, as big as the sky & as beautiful as the eyes of an angel. How lucky we are to have this, to be able to experience it, regardless if we say it all the time or mean it exactly the same way every time we utter the phrase.

I shall love you continuously for the rest of my life. It won’t necessarily be for the same reason as today, but it will always be there: I promise.

With that I remain faithfully yours –
- B

The love story had a tragic ending. She wasn't faithful. After a couple of years, the terrible plague of betrayals and deceit descended. Along with anger, they tore at the words and feelings of the partnership, hacking the meanings asunder. The world showed no mercy, and shredded every moment it could find. Very little survived. In the end, the heart was deeply wounded. He was devastated.

In the lingering aftermath, any bits and pieces that had survived – the letters and pictures, poems and promises – were picked gingerly up and placed far away from anything that might again do them harm. Placed into an unassuming black shoebox, all the world was locked out.

And locked in, was the memory of how well a man can love, and be loved.

Spiralling,
Softly
Down.
To rest with all grace and ease,
lightly.
Found in lovers' lips and grips,
Heart and mind and fingertips.
Found in comfort, found in care,
All their thoughts linger
there.

Laughing, crying, lust's desire,
Cold as ice or hot as fire,
No matter what the thoughts would say,
Black as night or clear as day,
The den of lovers' holds them all.
Each
and
every
One.
Old, and new.
Small and tall.

And in every moment of their blissful stay,
They hear what called them on their way:
"I love you."