A candid tale of 20-something humanness and extended note to self.

Sunday, 8 November 2015

On perfect scars, and the best birthday present I was ever given


The sunlight danced off of the gentle waves that lapped against our half-battered, rickety boat: the boat  he'd hired via hurried, excited whispers in the bathroom the morning before: the tiny boat that I didn't initially trust not to capsize. It must have been a few decades old. It wore the perfect scars of a thousand brutal winds, a thousand curious adventures. Theirs before ours. Ours.

One of the things I like most about being in a world full of human beings is how unpredictable our paths are. You can look a handsome stranger in the eye and utter a timid hello, confident that this fleeting moment is all you'll ever share: completely oblivious to the fact that one day you'll sit, legs draped over his, on a half-battered, rickety old boat, hundreds of miles from home, fingertips teasing the chilly water of the lake, and you'll know, with the entirety of your heart, that you'll still treasure this memory when it's a few decades old: that you'll treasure this memory even if there becomes a day when the everything between you becomes nothing. This memory.

His. Mine. Ours.

I like the way that four letter word dances off of my lips. Ours. I like that the island we drifted to became just that for the small, curious pocket of time within which we inhabited it. Just us. The only two human beings, in a world full of human beings. Warm sandwiches. Monastic ruins and decaying churches. A beautiful, sorry island wearing the perfect scars of time.

His. Mine. Ours.

His fingertips teased the base of my spine. 'Happy birthday,' he said, with a knowing smile, one that knew that I loved him, that I loved this, but perhaps one still completely oblivious to the fact that this gift of a boat was not just that of a boat, nor his gift of a deserted island the gift of a deserted island. His gift was that of the reminder that the nothing between us became an everything, and that we bid fond farewell to the timid hello.  Home. Hundreds of miles away, and yet here, all at once. Not a stranger anymore.

The sunlight danced off of the gentle waves that lapped against our half-battered, rickety boat: the boat  he'd hired via hurried, excited whispers in the bathroom the morning before: the tiny boat that I didn't initially trust not to capsize. It must have been a few decades old. It wore the perfect scars of a thousand brutal winds, a thousand curious adventures.

I smiled back at him. And I hoped, with the entirety of my heart, that perhaps, some day, we'll wear them too. Those perfect scars. A thousand brutal winds, a thousand curious adventures.

His. Mine. Ours. 
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