by Adrianna de la Rosa
(04/02/03)
What was it in that candle's light
that opened and consumed me so quickly?
Come back, my friend! The form of our love
is not a created form.
Nothing can help me but that beauty.
There was a dawn I remember
when my soul heard something
from your soul. I drank water
from your spring and felt
the current take me.
--Rumi
Valdez,
I want to thank you again for yesterday because you took death off my hands, heart, and mind. To be in your house of sea & sea light & sun & wind & warmth & peace was a balm. I did feel hungry, and also sexy, because that is just how it is when I get with you. I've pretty much been unable to eat -- only drink through this experience which is the wrong (but Irish) way to handle it. In a way I am glad you are going away from all this sadness in me for distant parts & ports. I really love the way you step into, grab & wrestle with life and always land on your feet. I do think you are a winner in this respect. I loved being in the cubby with the light from that dancing candle in there and the faint scent -- but mostly being in your arms, held & touched. You transported me away from pain and that is a gift I needed so much in that moment. Really you have always done that for me. But there has not always been so much pain.
What is the meaning of life anyway?
Love, Adrianna
He told her once he always wrote his stories by describing the end first, then the beginning, and then all the details in between. But the end, he said "always had to have a kicker." His nature was essentially cynical, like Ambrose Bierce. He always knew just where to insert the semicolons.
The phone call came while she was at work. From his daughter. "He's dead," she said. "Happened last night at 11 p.m., outside of Riverside. He was killed instantly, no pain." Adrianna de la Rosa had sent him away. She didn't prevent his leaving. A howl began to rise in her throat, unspeakable, pain cry, soul wrenched from its foundations, only a word. "Nooooooooo." Then her knees gave way.
No no no no no not possible.
Not the man whose fingers had known her for the first time ever. Not the man who had known her every crevasse. Not the man who loved all aspects of her, even those she hated in herself. Not the man who had beheld her fully naked. Naked to her soul and stripped of arbitrary coverings. Stripped of lace, lipstick, veneers. She was breaking in half. Breaking.
Gone. Gone just like that.
Rumi has written poems to the Friend. He was Shams of Tabriz, a whirling dervish. They met on the road. Valdez was her Friend. He showed her something, and there is no way to express this thing now. We take love for granted. We take hearts for granted. We take our impact on someone for granted. And we do this all the time. Why? He told her once that he couldn't bear it if something happened to her. "God, just let me go before you," he said. So when he bought the shiny black motorcycle emblazoned with the word "Star," it's not as if she could have said "no." Even if she thought it.
They had given each other immense freedom. Theirs was not a relationship of bonds and brands.
We take love for granted. Why? We take love for granted. There will never be another letter. There will never be another conversation. There will never be another one like him. We take love for granted. There are dozens of letters in a trunk. She cannot bear to look at them. She cannot bear the beauty. We take love for granted, thinking it is the arbitrary moment of flesh meeting flesh and submerging. More than the touch, you will miss the conversation. You will miss the essence of this person. Death is so much greater than just saying "goodbye," because it is so finite. Think. We take love for granted. Why? Can you separate sex from love? Can you? We take sex for granted. We take love for granted. Why?
Adrianna,
If you know the beginning and the end, just fill in the details with the capacity to see and feel. And you have a short story. You and I know the beginning, but we don't know the end. You and I will never be a short story.
Love, Valdez
The End
Man in the Moon has been a continuing series.
Man in the Moon
Man in the Moon: 2 Baths
Man in the Moon: Lace
Man in the Moon: Gazing
Man in the Moon: Valdez
Man in the Moon: Naked
Man in the Moon: Lipstick
Man in the Moon: Beds
Man in the Moon: Clouds
Man in the Moon: Evidence
Man in the Moon: Letter From Valdez
