Love In Its Seasons

“I told you once that I never lied to you, but that you weren’t willing to accept what I said as the truth. I was full of crap.” Burt Kempner

Pinhead Angel

By Burt Kempner

GAINESVILLE Florida—(Weekly Hubris)—10/29/2012—

“Dear ____: A Letter of Longing and Regret”

I’ve given up trying to find you again. If this somehow manages to float into your inbox, so be it; if not, that’s all right, too.

I Googled you once and all I could find was your name on a Seventh Day Adventist newsletter. That so clashed with the image I held of you as a funny, rebellious hell-raiser, but who among us is what we were 40 years ago? Well, lots of people, I suppose, but would you want to associate with them?

I told you once that I never lied to you, but that you weren’t willing to accept what I said as the truth. I was full of crap. So here it is, what I couldn’t bring myself to tell you: I stopped calling you, I cut you off, because I was talked into it by my family and friends. No excuses. It was the one and only time anything like that happened in my life, but you bore the brunt of it. Not a day has gone by since that I have not kicked myself in the ass for being such a coward. I hope I have your forgiveness; I know that I don’t yet have mine.

You taught me most of what I know about women. You taught me to see beyond my own cravings and open up as a human being. In the parlance of the times, you raised my consciousness; I only wish I’d allowed it to be raised more. Your brightness was mixed with a hint of anger, as though you already knew then what a smart, talented woman would have to put up with in the early 1970s in order to be truly seen or heard.

Do you still paint? Do you still cry after each session of lovemaking? Do you still make love? Did you ever have children? Do you remember the absurd names we gave each other? Do you remember me at all, ______, or was our union a blurry something that went sour too long ago to think about? I can’t say I’d blame you if you erased it from your memory tapes.

We share the same birthday, and they’re piling up, aren’t they? My dad was known as The Silver Fox, and I guess I’m The Son of Silver Fox now, with my hair taking a turn toward the wintry. I’ve mostly outgrown the shallowness you noticed but were kind enough not to mention much. I hope life has been good to you, _____. I hope you’ve known peace and contentment. I hope you’ve kept fear from your door. I hope you’ve known strong, enduring love.

I became a professional writer, like I told you I would. All these years and all those words, and all I can think of to say to you now is: I’m sorry. I loved you. That will have to suffice.

Blessings and love,

Burt

“Lovers’ Moon: Never Compete with a Legend” 

“Funny how a moment that is clutched close by one mind can be casually discarded by another.” Burt Kempner

Recent correspondence:

She: “Today is my 64th birthday. Will you still . . . as in the Beatles song?”

I: “I certainly need you, and if you ever swing by, I will definitely feed you. It’s been a long time. How goes it?”

She: “Better now. Had a brush with breast cancer and reconstructive surgery.”

I: “Dear God!”

She: “I was thinking today about my 21st birthday. They landed on the moon that night. I watched it in a bar downtown.”

Was that all she remembered of that day? Had she forgotten how I drove 14 hours because she didn’t want to spend her birthday alone? She had recently broken up with a friend of mine. In the midst of a sophomoric discussion about the slings and arrows, we exchanged a tentative kiss, then a lingering one, followed by professions of long-fermented, unspoken love. We grew more passionate. I kissed her breast (was it the same one that would turn on her later?). And then I called a halt. Guilt and confusion fought to a draw. She offered to talk the situation over with my friend. I decided to drive to Philadelphia and see my family. She went out with a few drinking buddies celebrate her birth and America’s date with destiny.

Funny how a moment that is clutched close by one mind can be casually discarded by another.

Then again, how can the small, stumbling steps of a man be measured against a giant leap for mankind?

“She: A Love Story”                                                                     

“They retreated to their respective corners, he to nurse the pain of lost love and she to revisit the ruins of a brief, disastrous first marriage.” Burt Kempner

He didn’t even realize he had been lonely until he met her. He was too busy trying to drink away the memory of a love that had gone bad eight years earlier.

No one had told him that alcohol was also an excellent preservative.

It was a promising idea for a party. Each invitee would bring a member of the opposite sex with whom they were not romantically involved. She was the hostess.

He came with the receptionist of one of his clients. The small apartment was jammed with partygoers. One of her friends had announced the event at her group therapy session and every male member had shown up. Sheer chaos ruled the evening.

She approached him and they engaged in a spirited conversation. He learned only later that this was highly out of character for her. She was usually quite shy, but circumstances had turned her into a tigress: someone had spilled red wine on her tan carpet, a man was found masturbating in her bathroom, and her garbage disposal had backed up. For the remainder of that chilly December night, they had eyes for no one but each other. Afterward, he helped her search the apartment complex for her cat, which had taken the earliest opportunity to escape the noise and smoke. They kissed in a stairwell.

The next part of the story is more concerned with discoveries than deeds. Each of their senses became an explorer, but mostly touch. Over the months that followed, infatuation ripened into love, and the shining possibilities in store for them seemed endless.

But then, there came a crisis. Perhaps they left the door to their hearts open too long, for fear and doubt managed to follow the trail blazed by love. They retreated to their respective corners, he to nurse the pain of lost love and she to revisit the ruins of a brief, disastrous first marriage. They stopped communicating, lost trust not with each other but with themselves. Nothing short of dumb luck or divine intervention could keep them together now.

Reader, he married her.