My Valentine

It has been commonly stated that love is blind. Check that—first loves are often blind. Maybe later on it drifts into a much closer truth in being that infatuation is always blind; of this I know and am fully conscious to it. And we skillfully use the word ‘experience’ when we try and justify our own past mistakes.

Lake Grenada was tepid that day, and I’m assuming the waters were warmed by an unusually hot July sun, if my memory serves me well. On these-type recollections I am usually secure, so we’ll leave it at that. For safety’s sake and responsibility having placed me as your protector, the tables turned toward knee-boarding because I knew if we skied and you were hurt or injured, your mom would never forgive me. Though I had only recently made the acquaintance of your friends, our host couple seemed nice enough and we had a great time by the moment that winsome sun casually set across the lake. It was a banner day among many, many banner days I’ve treasured with you over the years, but it wasn’t the water, the sun, nor newly minted friendships that made the day perfectly memorable for me.

It was you.

You were young, full of life, and nothing seemed impossible for a brash, South Mississippi boy who happened to find himself by your side. Your raven hair and dark eyes had the innate ability to stop clocks, and I witnessed that feat on more than one occasion—including my own timeless heart beat—and on more than a few episodes. Memorable example: The luckless guys in passing boats whistling uncontrollably as you walked across the sandy beach that afternoon.

Those days are mere memories, faded pictures in long-forgotten photo albums that reside in the attic; filed softly under ‘days gone by’. Yet in my heart and in my eyes they live on still, untouched by life and responsibilities that shape us into what we’ve grudgingly accepted as middle age. When I look at you I do not see simply time, neither accepted nor fulfilled, the good memories along with the bad. I see you still, in a way I can’t describe because you wouldn’t understand it, as the girl on the beach and in the boat—that girl from the carefree weekend spent so many years ago. And I yet have an uncanny desire of my own to whistle, if I possessed that talent.

To paraphrase a line from a much better writer—in your arms I’ve been held by Juliet, as my lips have touched those of Ophelia.

These days are spent more an adherence to family and jobs, church and children. We stay so busy, our life well-scripted in a path that must needs be followed daily. But always we are one, and the distance between us has never grown uncomfortable despite the issues any particular day may happen to bring to our door. I’m thankful for that...

I’m also secure in the knowledge that it will always thus be so. Same as it ever was.

Because you and I are a mathematical certainty set in time by the unseen hand of Providence. He set the wheel in motion and in turn, we made Him a major part of our journey. I cannot fathom of a time or a place where you would not encircle my heart, as I believe that to be so would not only diminish me, but remove both of us from what most assuredly is His Will. “What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.” May the tandem beat of our hearts continue as time rolls ever forward, and it will be enough. Enough to stave off the twilight years that approach us both seemingly just over the horizon.

Yet still, despite these broken ruminations from an honest heart, in dreams I still pick a time and place where once more we’ll glide over sun-kissed waters, maybe alone or by chance with good friends. A race to find those days of youth, not as payment for things we’ve accomplished, but as a reward for lives well spent.