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By JD Date: 2004 Jul 06 Comment on this Work [[2004.07.06.08.20.8801]] |
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When I was sixteen, in my naïïve, foolhardy way, I fell in love. It happened just the way I had envisioned it as a child- my very own fairy tale. Stolen from the mind of the latest Hollywood dramatic screenwriter, my affair with Love itself began in the stereotypical way all couples meet in all romance films- with a simple look. I'm not a believer in love at first sight. The thought of falling in love with just the locking of eyes always seemed absurd to me. However, I hadn't really met Rodrigo at that point. He made me a believer. It was July, or perhaps it was June, I can't remember. The date, the time, the place no longer mattered. I only remember the slow way he walked towards me, as I sat nervously in the middle of his rattan chair. I only remember the small smile he offered to me as he took his place right beside his mother, uttering only a brief acknowledgment in my direction. Fine, I admit, I didn't know I was in love at that moment. My sixteen-year-old mind didn't exactly foresee what was to come with that brief exchange. If I had known at that moment how deeply and desperately I would love him later on, I would have hugged his mother goodbye, and ran away as fast as I could out of that little village where I grew up. But I didn't know- so I sat there, with a foolish grin on my face, thankful for the slight breeze that wafted through the windows as he stepped closer to me. It's funny what a person remembers. I don't remember what happened after I first met him. Maybe we talked on the phone. Maybe I walked around the village with him, trying hard to get reacquainted with the life I left in the Philippines. Maybe it all started with a letter from me, asking him if he had any feelings for me. I don't remember everything- although I wish I did. My first clear memory of our love affair was our first kiss. It wasn't romantic. It wasn't one of those life altering moments so commonly portrayed in the new Dawson's Creek rip-offs. We had gone to see a movie for his birthday and already I knew that something momentous was going to happen that day. Something HAD to happen. After all, I was only on vacation and would be leaving in a month's time. I wanted a kiss. The theater darkened, our friend who loyally accompanied us just magically disappeared, and right there, in the middle of a crowded theater, full of teenagers eagerly waiting for the chance to make out, he kissed me. So it wasn't the fantasy kiss I envisioned as an eight-year-old. So there were no fireworks or a marching band breaking out in song. There were no choirs in hymn singing praise of our love. It was a simple kiss- lips upon lips, tongue playing with tongue. However, it was the start of love affair that I would always remember. Now, as I sit here, among unpacked boxes, with only my laptop as my source of amusement, I desperately want to remember him. I want to remember the way his fingers circled around the ring he lovingly saved up for and gave to me- the ring I threw away after he broke my heart. I want to remember the way his lips would curve into a tiny smile as soon as I walked through the door. I want to remember the way he looked at me in that infamously depressing way of his, his eyes doleful and sad. I want to remember the way he sang to me- even though his voice was always out of key. Now it's not enough that I have a boxful of love letters that I've collected throughout the years of separation. It's not enough to have an album full of pictures, still shots trying to capture an ounce of happiness we felt at that moment. None of it is enough. I want to remember him. Like I said, it's funny what a person remembers. My second distinct memory of him is the time he said I love you, and I truly believe he meant it. We were watching yet another movie and the plot seemed strangely similar to ours. The couple was separated by hundreds of miles, oceans that seemed endless. It was the climax of the movie and it was time for them to say goodbye. For some reason, we both started to cry. Maybe it was a painful reminder of what we would have to go through in just a matter of days. Maybe the actors were really JUST that good. But those tears were real- the pain of leaving each other was just too distinct. I knew, at that moment, that I loved him. How else can I explain the emotion I was feeling? I was crying because I couldn't go back to my old life, back to the redundancy of my world- I couldn't live without him. Isn't that what love's supposed to be? I came back the next year. I couldn't stay away from him. I was caught in his world, trapped in the web of this peculiar love affair. The first summer we were together, it was solely about spontaneity, about wild, intoxicating romance. The next summer was different. We experienced what it was like to be a real couple. I would wait for him in the little apartment my mother let me use, just so I can be close to him, until the afternoon when he would arrive, and we would kiss until our mouths were stung with pleasure. Then, like a routine, we would buy food at the market place, and cook, just like every other couple in the world. This was better. This felt real. I think I miss these days the most for it was during this time, that I fell most in love with him. It's funny what a person remembers. It truly is. On one of our daily trips to the market, as we traveled the short distance back to my dingy apartment, he rested his chin on my shoulder, looked up at me with his pleading eyes, and smiled. I could smell the sweet scent of hamburgers on his lips as his breath played on my sun burnt shoulder. The loud honking of the cars around us faded, as well as the incessant chattering of giggling schoolgirls. That moment solidified my belief that we were living in our very own Hollywood, cheesy, romance film. Just like in the movies, everything faded- the cars, the stench of the fish market, even the drag queen seated next to me with a body that rivaled my own. The imaginary camera in my mind zoomed in and captured us, staring intently at each other, just smiling like the two love-sick fools that we were. We proceed to the next scene of our film. So, we have the kiss, the first confessions of love, the earth shattering look- what else is left before our hearts are broken? A slow dance. Every couple undergoes the painful and uncomfortable ordeal of their first slow dance- only ours wasn't as awkward as I thought it would be. We had spent half the night talking and suddenly, I walk towards the cd player, pop in my favourite song, and point excitedly at the picture of the artist. I tell him that out of the thousands of songs I sing along to, this particular one is my favourite. Then I kiss him goodnight and proceed upstairs, leaving him to the solitude of the hard couch. Perhaps I went back downstairs, or maybe he called me down, I can''t remember, but suddenly, I found myself in his arms a whopping five minutes later. And as we sway to the smooth love song, a few stray tears escape his eyes- he tends to cry a lot. Again, we are reminded of our impending separation. I never told him this but at that moment, as I swayed slowly with him, I bid him a silent farewell. I engraved that bittersweet moment in my mind, knowing that I would never be able to dance with him that way again, to hold him that way again, to love him that way again. I knew that this goodbye would have to be our last. So here's the climax of my love affair with the boy next door. We sit on the platform we used to play on as children, staring up at the midnight blue sky. We make plans to see each other in our dreams. I told him that I would fly him to the Pyramids of Egypt, and perhaps atop the head of the Sphinx, he would kiss me once again. He told me that he would walk with me along the stony walls of Greece, and there, I would hold his hand once again. In our dreams, I could be with him, touch him, feel his signature doleful gaze on my skin. Only in our dreams. Then my mom sped inside the tiny village, dragged me to our unnecessarily expensive hotel, and took me from the first true love I've ever known. I remember sitting in my cramped seat, watching as the plane slowly prepared for takeoff, and just clutching onto the armrest to keep from jumping out and running back to him. I didn't know how to tell him that I'm too immature to handle a long distance relationship. I didn't know how to tell him that I'm not the girl he expected me to be- that I would hurt him with my weaknesses. So I left the Philippines, knowing that my dreams were not enough to keep him with me. I knew that one day, he would forget me and fall deep in love with someone that wasn''t me. Gradually, I called him less, I rarely sent him a letter, although I would constantly send him impersonal emails. My mother went back to the Philippines the next year- I refused to go with her. Sometimes, I desperately wish that we could have made it work, that we could have had the chance to be a real couple- but then again, what we had was enough. It was young love, perhaps it even began to blossom back when we were four-year-olds, pretending to cook with dried flowers, as my cat, aptly named Eyeliner, would scurry past our scraped knees. Or maybe it did begin with that first look- the look that would be forever emblazoned in my memory. I don't know. Who can really say when love begins? So, like I expected, he fell in love with someone else. Sure, I'm jealous of her, and feel the neurotic urge to rip her beautiful, raven-like hair out of her skull- but then I remember, I'm not a catty person. I still feel an uncontrollable feeling of envy each time I see a picture of the two of them, their heads bent together in a familiar way. For a while, I did nothing but obsess about why he fell in love with her. Is she loud and perky, like me? Or is she demure and soft spoken? Does she burn everything she cooks, like me? Or is she the perfect housewife? Does she make him think the way I did, fighting for my beliefs whatever the cost? Or does she just smile and nod her head at everything he says? Does she give him love letters and poems the way I did each time I saw him? Or does she simply pick up the phone and tell him how much she loves him? Does she cry whenever she watches a sad movie like I do? Or does she have a heart of stone? The thought of it all depresses me. She probably has a wonderful personality- after all, he did fall in love with her. The thought makes my stomach churn. I must admit, I think I will always be jealous of the woman who gets to love him because I never got the chance to love him the way I knew I could. Our time together was so short, so fragmented. But just like him, I fell in love with someone else, as well. My new love is nothing like the love I felt for my childhood friend. This new love was gradual, settling upon my life like sweet morning dew. I no longer look at the midnight blue sky, I now rise patiently and wait for the sun rise. I no longer live in my dreams, my new love has shaken me from my slumber. For the second time in my life, I fell desperately in love. I sit here, looking at my half-painted walls, and say goodbye to my first real love. I don't know how to say farewell to him, other than this overdrawn, unstructured piece of literature- if one can even call it that. Nevertheless, he will read this one day, as I am sure to post it in a forum that will surely catch his attention, and he will know how much I really did love him. He will hide his smile, as I am sure he will read this in a crowded room, and remember what we shared. Then, he will go outside, breathe in the fresh, Laguna air, and remember my passion for pineapple farms. And he will close his eyes and remember, just as I did tonight |