The bottle has been sitting in the corner of my kitchen for over a month now. Funny how I greet it every morning as it reminds me of her. Something you need to know—I’m not a Vodka drinker. As a matter of fact I’ve only had it once where I actually appreciated it and it was probably because it was such a desirable setting: after a late breakfast, 40 degrees outside, a Sunday, cigars and a batch of Martinis with good friends. An impromptu session, but stuff you remember into the dark old days when the sharers of those memories are not longer around.
Ok, but this entry is about the Grey Goose. She brought such a smile to my face. I’ve never met anyone as precious as her. Words would never describe her.
I found myself tonight face to face with the bottle. Of course I knew it was never going to be opened nor enjoyed by her. It was a bottle that represented all of the good times I had hoped to have with her. It now sat quietly in the corner. When our eyes met a sad sensation arose in me. But just as quickly, I was greeted with warmth and a cherished sensation akin to a wonderful memory.
“She was the girl, wasn’t she” the bottle seemed to say.
“Yeah she was,” I replied. “In more ways than anyone would ever know. Besides, her memory is mine to keep and not meant to be shared with anyone.”
“Why?’” Wouldn’t sharing not ease that lump you have in you right now?”
“Grey” I replied, “as much as sharing eases your pain, there’s a thought I prescribe to. It’s where the more you share your memory fades. You see, it just becomes a well rehearsed story where details are altered, and events as well as moments of tenderness fade into the background. And while that in itself isn’t necessarily bad, there are memories where it needn’t be altered, nor shared. With her, I’d rather leave all the memories to myself—just the way it is, in the arms of my significant being.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment