There was a man, I'd run into him odd times. No spectacular distinction except out of thousands crossing my path, he in some way stood apart. Perhaps the randomness of finding myself in his space in different and unrelated locations each time? The way he casually entered my space, no visible intent, only ever sustained eye contact between us. He walking by with dog in tow... Strolling along the pier.... Speaking on the phone outside the bank... In a pizza place, my sons picking up the order as I waited parked outside... At an outdoor café, some distance from home... For three years these chance meetings piqued my interest.
"Speak to him already," my son said one day, seeing me freeze again, my eyes glued to the stranger's face.
"Nuh. It's nothing."
"It's something, if you keep doing it mum."
I'd spotted him with a woman once or twice. The sort I imagined him having: Blonde, slender, fashion-conscious. I assumed him married - despite never witnessing any physical contact between them - this fact however never hindering my quiet moments of imagining. He fit the pattern.
Yet I never followed through. Only my eyes examining, searching for why the attraction? Why he, in a sea of middle-aged possibilities - most far easier to approach, far less consuming. I wrote about him. An interest; something to make the bland days a little more palatable. The chance we'd cross paths again, when least expected. It's what I wanted really, my son too young to understand. The idea of connecting, baring my flesh, his hands exploring... Terrible. Finding no meaning to take away from him and dissect afterwards? Worse.
Still, I clung to the fear. The possibility he could be another. It worried me, the conviction he would take from me, or I'd gush, explode in my urgency to define. Overwhelm him with need. No way for him to reciprocate, I'd push him away, he wandering off in search of something less complicated.
The fact he further brought William to my mind during those random meets? Maybe this was the real reason I kept away.The disturbing idea William was two places at once, taking over other bodies, intruding on my living.
"There's a man with a dog. Sometimes I see him and seeing myself, I turn away letting it be. If I sit here on the pier long enough, dangling feet over the worn woody edge, he will come and if I look he will look back, seeing himself in me. Long ago on an aeroplane, later a train, a crowded street, I caught brief glimpses of other 'he may be you' versions.This one persists however making the merely ethereal appear like real. He brings you to me every chance meet. It is for this I turn away, the odd connection defying an explanation other than you're two places at once, morphing into strangers smirking, entering my field of living. Even on the bloody pier minding my own business you appear; the stranger mutely asking for permission to approach never knowing you've invaded him."
This not the only instance either. Another time, driving past the shopping centre, almost causing an accident because I swore I saw William. The frantic search for a parking spot, eyes glued to his retreating back. Everything inside me screaming it was him. It was him! Rushing from the illegally parked car and walking up and down the main street searching, searching. Not finding him.
The irony! Discovering during our last brief meeting that he'd in fact been down to our coast, looking at a development. The idea - no the certainty- that it could well have been him!
The irrationality also. A phone call, a plane ride away. Yet relying on fate to instigate a meeting? I may be a coward after all, despite the heroic gestures and selfless proclamations, despite the sacrifices. In the end, all that may remain is acknowledging my cowardice.
Was this the real, the only theft by the man-devils? Has it always been a way to compensate, deceive the world? Where is my bloody heart? Where is the simple trust, devoid of prior contemplation and planning? The innate affection too, the touch of a hand, kiss on lips without dissembling, role-playing?
Coward. The Princess forever waiting on the forbidding tower, the Prince more than once glancing up and... galloping away. Too bloody difficult, the climb to reach me, yet I demand it, thinking only the worthy. Only the One, to climb this most precipitous tower. When I should be climbing down myself, standing in the doorway and inviting in!
"Come in! Welcome! Nothing to fear here."
But I hold them collectively accountable. They screwed up my childhood, sent me on this crazy journey. They should take care of me now. Save me over and over. My father, my brother, all the rest, they should serve me. Never mind they are unaware of any accountability, considering me instead helpless, hapless. Everything is their fault. The chaos I create over and over until it becomes a solid mess? Assuming rescue should be forthcoming - is always due.
Sure I hold them responsible. The child in me refusing to move on, mature. Maybe. Maybe if someone had known, spoken to me back then, if someone had identified my terror and explained it away, sending the light in. Yeah. This sought after greatness of being possible, if only someone had rescued me back when rescuing would have mattered. Recreating this need to be saved over and over since, does it in any way remove the anomalies in me?
Who in their right mind takes up with a drug addict? Goes ahead and claims they are going to beat the bitch heroin? Produces children in this poison-filled environment? Who willingly embraces a nightmare? What was I thinking, or did I identify with this lost soul? Sensing his childhood likewise denied, keeping him within, never allowing departure from the innermost child-world. A coward seeking the empathy of another coward?
We had some rare times when he cleaned himself up, the boys still young. He rolled around on the floor with them; he laughed and made silly noises. I held my breath, at times envying his ability to connect. Not ever long enough though... exhaling at the first sight of glazed eyes. Cheated on again. What? I expected a different outcome? Seriously? Replaying over and over the definition of insanity? Reasoning others succeeded, he could too if I allowed him the opportunity?
The boys outgrew him. I could sense it, the point arriving when they knew more, felt more, understood more. They left him and his immature attempts to rectify behind. Unobtrusive roll of their eyes... Discreet sighs, and some moments, outright humorous reactions to his inadequacies. Frustrated, obligatory rebuttals to his out-dated opinions. Sometimes witnessing this leaving behind, I felt sorry for him. Yeah. Wondering what it is like, this being overtaken, overridden. The point reached where everything in one becomes out-dated, unneeded.
One day - I can see it now - one day they will leave me behind also. Already I am slowing. Their strides long, confident. Mine reluctant most days. Sure, I will be where he is, both irrelevant and out of context. Only I hope I have instilled something more lasting. Some measure of me compensating, bridging the growing distance. I take steps sure, my mind expanding by incursions into their world. Keeping up with technology, innovations I struggle to understand yet they embrace so naturally.
Keeping up best I can because they are in fact speaking a different language. Approximating my being in yet another foreign country again and having to learn to speak, to comprehend what they are saying. The fact they continue to include me in these conversations though is comforting. Staving off the inevitable a little longer each time...
My first-born wants to travel. It breaks me. His wanderlust stemming from the imposed confinement of this present reality? Stuck? He feels stuck! Bound to my living and bidding time until he can escape. Nice about it, polite in his unhappiness. He'd never hurt me, he sees the pain I carry already. We discuss it, the two of us. I tell him of my own past travels, my accomplishments...
"When I was your age," I say. Then wish I could take it back. Because when I was his age, I didn't give a fuck about anybody. Only took. I don't want this for him. I want a stable life. A sane life, a giving, sharing life.
My exploits only ever adding to his frustration. He chafes; it is between us this need to be free, away from my gloom and isolation. I tell him "I'll come out of it soon, start doing things." Not walking head down in the crowd but head high, meeting eyes and greetings with a smile. Hell, I can make up anything. Only, the insecurity I never expected to re-grow into late in life, it stops me.
Lines on my face; my body disintegrating, turning into creases and flab. Head down because I don't resemble them, I don't feel allied to them. The crowd as one and I outside, another.
"I feel it. Approaching with silent steps, muted movements. I hate it. Draws me towards Them even as it too nears, each waking moment. Out there, the world. In here the convent life, sworn to uphold vows of chastity and silence, sitting quietly through years of purposeful reflection. My self-imposed sentence feels over. Is it inevitable life calling and insisting I re-join... Them? They who will greet, talk, engage, flirt, intrude into my space and call it living. Implode my silence with chattering sounds and explode my inner visions by introducing mundane scenes of social niceties and gossipy indecencies. Oh but that I would be left alone but no. It too must pass, this crossing to normality must come, and I must follow as it leads back to their future. Them."
Yes, I deliberate on this message. What I am creating in my children. Blame only ever outward, never my fault - none of it. They witnessed it in their father too: His parents at fault for not caring enough... His friends, where he lived. Everything pushing him to seek relief in substances, needing rescuing from the environment, from the times he lived. Both parents victims? What does a child do with this knowledge? How do they incorporate it into their future? I sense no blame coming from them yet the fear persists they became adept early on, at hiding it.