Best Love Letter Ever

December 5, 2011 at 8:03 pm (Uncategorized)

My white flower glides swiftly across the ice, and other heads besides mine swing to follow her motions.  She’s beautiful in her element, and I can feel my chest tighten in anticipation as she swoops and glides down the arena. Her forehead snarled in a web of concentration, she gathers herself inward, the springs of her muscles coiling tightly.  She explodes, releasing her pent up energy in a focused burst, leaping and twirling in the air like a baby dove, airborne for a scant second that burns into my mind, an image that stays with me long after she is gone.

 

As she comes down, her angle is wrong, and she has to flail her arms momentarily to keep her balance.  She coasts to me, and in her eyes I can see her frustration and anger at herself for overbalancing on her landing and for messing up again on this jump she’s been practicing for countless weeks.  But buried deep under the layers of gloom, I can also see her silent laughter at herself, and the little spark that will never let her quit or give up hope or get really mad burns brightly, turning her brown eyes into chocolate; melting and sweet and achingly beautiful.  I love her for it.

 

She asks me what she did wrong, and I stammer out a few words about what she should change and work on, but they are lies.  To me she was perfect, but I’m supposed to be helping her improve.  She can tell that once again I’ve gotten caught up in watching her skate, and forgotten to watch for her mistakes.  The corners of her mouth turn up slightly, and then she’s gone, flowing around the other skaters, the twin white trails that follow her every move circling and spiraling, spinning and looping.  I feel slow and clumsy, an ignorant lump of clay cursed to a life of plodding down beaten earth trails.  My hands are numb and my nose feels red and swollen from the cold, but her skin glows and tingles from the exhilaration of her skating.  My breath floats lazily on the air, while hers is pushed out of her lungs in steam-engine puffs.  As she again makes her approach, I try to remind myself to watch her posture  and her footwork and her speed.  But my eyes want to drink in her grace, and poise, and precision; her beauty is intoxicating and addictive, and I’m not strong enough to resist its temptation. Just as I’m not strong enough to resist her.

-March 2, 1993

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