The Wayward Heart

wrote this about someone very close to me. It is a true story and I needed it to be put onto paper.

Its what I do.

~~

He lived on the outskirts of town, just beyond peering eyes and wagging tongues. Forgotten as he had wished it to be, not so much a recluse, a recluse would provoke curiosity. No, he held a job, shopped at the stores and walked among men, but he spoke from the heart to no one, not anymore, not since he had fallen from his steed. His armor now rusted, useless.

He lived with a girl. A sweet girl, but no one remarkable, nothing very memorable about her, just an average sweet girl. She blended in with the other women, her long hair tucked in a twisted pony tail, t-shirt and jeans her average attire. She wasn’t from town so she remained with him, leaving only for work or to shop with him. She wore no makeup nor did she care for flashy jewelry. She preferred a dogs company to girl friends, so they had two and occasionally you passed her as she walked them up the hill, away from town.

He never used to be no one.
He had been someone. He had lived with a drink in one hand and an arm draped around his fellow mate. He laughed loud and played hard. And when he met her, the girl of his dreams, the one he would cross rivers and fight dragons for, well, he loved with all his might. He had changed for her, setting the glass down, losing the sportswear to don a suit, working long hard hours to afford trinkets and designer clothes. They married in an elaborate way. His smile unforced in every picture, his eyes always looking to her as she looked out to the world. When he said her name he embraced it caressing the syllable, cradling it as a newborn. He was so blinded, this knight, that he didn’t see her tossing the vessel of their love around as though it were packaged in an industrial metal container, not the gilded glass vase, until it fell, hitting the floor and shattering into a thousand pieces. Her laughter just as loud and piercing as it carried her out the door. She hopped into the awaiting sports car which carried her away as if their were no responsibilities, connections, she never even looked back to the doorway of the brave broken knight.

He had staggered through days and nights, he spoke to know one for fear her name would get thrown against him. People called and tried to speak to him when he was seen but he kept his head bent, his face down and pretended their arms were unattached, unable to embrace. He would crack if they did, shatter into the pieces already on the ground.

She had come into his life. Her simple ways, her small gestures of care slid into his life without ripples. She visited, made coffee and spoke of trivial things as she made warm bread and washed the curtains. It became convenient to have her there, her unassuming ways co inhabiting with his grief, her fingers stroking his brow. She never spoke ill of the other, he had carefully unwrapped his secret pain but she rewrapped it and tucked it away carefully into the guest closet as not to stumble upon it. Her cooking filling the house with pleasant days; her dogs, brilliant fellows, doted on him, much like their master. His affection was returned gently. Yet, He will not marry her because he can not bring himself to eliminate the other, to replace her, and she knows it, accepts it.

I ride by their house and note the mowed lawn which lacks a flower garden. Their cars parked one behind the other, not side by side.
And,
I have to wonder, is this good love? Is this a good life? Is it good enough to have loved and lost to not have loved at all?
Has she sold her soul and will never know how it is to fiercely love another or be loved without restraint?
I wonder.