He Could Have Taken It All Away From Me
I know the most fabulous people from this journaler's world. Thank you so much for enriching my days.
I got a chill yesterday, and ever since my inbox has been strangely empty. It's rarely empty. I get emailed in a steady pulse throughout the day and night from people all over the country -- nay, the world!
But yesterday came word from Patrick via email and since that the vinegar of his words have pickled my inbox and kept it sterile from any other incoming.
I've been trying to peg what his memory makes me feel, and here it is:
I know I was awful in disregarding him so quickly, and so thoroughly, and for such a long time with no explanation, but I felt turned against him very suddenly.
Like when you crave the milk. Cool milk. After eating chocolate. But it isn't until the glass is a fraction of an inch from your face that you can smell the milk is spoiled. Just pour it out; you don't have to have any other reason. And a Dr. Pepper will do just fine.
Like when I was twelve and the distinguished gentlemen at my Grandmother's Christmas parties would request my presence at their conversations in the drawing room. I would present myself very formally and speak in my best English. The gentlemen -- one time in particular it was the Methodis minister -- would be dazzled by the darling, dark-haired, blue-eyed girl who told stories of her family, and books she had read, and of what she hoped to become when she grew up.
Come closer. I moved from across the room to the middle of the room and propped myself up on the coffee table, smoothing the white lace of my new dress. That was better. Now he could hear me more clearly, and see my pretty smile better.
I was attentive to the others in the room, but I felt like there was a stronger connection with me and the minister.
Come closer. This time he took my hand and drew me nearer. Offered his lap. Beautiful child. Finally, at a distance of only inches I saw something in his eyes that worried me.
"I think my grandmother needs me in the kitchen," I told him, and I walked away. At dinner I sat in between my mother and sister.
I just knew he was not right. I didn't have to have a good reason.
Patrick does not make me feel like the minister did after I came within inches of him, but he makes me feel the way the minister did as I answered his beck. I felt like it was right for me to move closer across the drawing room. Despite any trepidation. I felt as though my ability to stimulate his intellect was superior to the fun shared with boys I had waterballoon fights with. I loved waterballoon fights. But one didn't speak of such things around ministers at Christams parties.
Simply put: I love the feeling I got from him, but he was the wrong person to make me feel that way.
Like the minister.
