Everything Matters . . and everything comes at once.
“It’s the image of a kid . . . a boy let’s say, sitting on the curb, looking around, slightly confused, not sure where he is or even quite who he is. And then an image of a girl, who notices him and stops. She reaches out her hand to him and he takes it. She says nothing, except with that one simple gesture she says the thing that matters most. And that’s – ‘it will be ok.’
And since then, somehow, somehow in many different ways, I have felt inexorably tied to you. Can’t deny that really – I love you even though at the same time you manage to both baffle and frustrate me.
And since then we’ve danced around each other – lovers, friends, other . .
The email continues. My heart skips beat. I laugh out loud. I smile and I also pause. He goes on to speak about a hidden me.
“Since the very beginning I started observing things about you, seeing things, and I suppose the conservationist never let go. I’m sorry – I guess it’s why I could never fully let go even when I pretended I could. I just never knew who I was falling for, so deep down without noticing I setup a natural barrier. And I waited…
I’m not sure exactly what I’ve been waiting for – I suppose a hunch that there was always something left out.”
And how he has danced around its discovery. Waiting to perhaps see and/or to not see something. I can only wonder if he was waiting to be dissuaded. Find out why I possibly wasn’t the one to love . . yet, the feelings, the dreams, and me have never left him—I, a low humming frequency in the life he leads.
I always equated his diatribes, his dissertation-like emails regarding his feelings for me to I being a placard–the justification, the excuse, that he is alone—why he breaks hearts, left and right. I always doubted this love he speaks of. We are so different. But, should it be real, I worry that I will hurt him for this apathetic New York bachelor is a façade for the man I met on that corner so many years ago. A man that still breathes somewhere underneath his hardened exterior. His words today are the first I trust. And perhaps this love he has for me is because I am the only one that knows these breaths?
I don’t know how to respond. I return to New York. To A, to new beginnings of which KidRobot does not yet know. In Puerto Rico, Caballito and I remain close, an entirely different story, one that was cemented by a tragedy . . .
And my life baffles me.