My Heart My Enemy

My Heart My Enemy

June 1, 2011

“Tramp, gypsy, vagabond, and bum – I have been called all of these and more; yet none have ever known me save one, and he called me lovely. The roses lay withered upon the ground, cast away and forgotten like the love that had given it… All my friends thought that I was the lucky one, they did not know that paradise can be a prison. I traded it all for freedom. A prison, no matter how beautiful, is still a prison.”

                It had begun easily enough, there was no effort involved in loving after all. They met on the river walk at two o’clock in the afternoon on a sunny day in June. Chelsea had been leaning against the bridge rail dropping the remains of crust from her sandwich into the water and watching as the fish came to the surface of the water to grab the morsels. John had been hurrying along to his next meeting, stopping at a park vendor to grab a quick lunch on his way. Standing in line he had noticed her leaning over the water, laughing to herself and had been hooked as securely as if she had been casting a line. John had barely listened to the vendor, taking his sandwich and walking toward her, finally, some sense returned and he was able to stop himself from bumbling over like a high school boy;  he chose the table nearest to her and sat with his lunch hoping to strike up a conversation.

                Chelsea had noticed him there, sitting at the table she had recently vacated, looking out of place in his three-piece suit distractedly eating his sandwich, glancing toward her as if he were watching her but not wanting to be caught. Amused, she turned back toward the water and dreamed of faraway lands with knights in armor, castles by the sea, dragons guarding treasure and small cottages nestled beside a river where a young maiden lived… “Beautiful day,” John had said, breaking her fantasy. “Yes, beautiful,” she had replied smiling up at him. John was very tall; at least he seemed so to Chelsea, though perhaps not to everyone. Chelsea had to stretch to reach five-foot-three. Their conversation had stumbled along at first but soon they found themselves laughing together, eventually walking along the river walk – John’s meeting forgotten. They walked and walked until it became evening and Chelsea began to talk of going home. John invited her to dinner, not wanting to part, but Chelsea declined. He was a stranger even though they had spent the afternoon together and she had planned to eat with her best friend, Joan. In the end, they had agreed to meet the next day at the table by the bridge where their conversation had started. This began a pattern and over the next few months, they became a fixture of the park, like a living love story if any had been paying attention, culminating on an evening in September. The leaves had turned into a bouquet of magnificent color, both on the trees and covering the ground. The air was fresh and crisp with just a bite of cold, suggesting a promise of snow. There upon the bridge, John knelt upon one knee and whispered those timeless words, “Will you marry me?” Chelsea had been so excited she could hardly speak; at first her eyes brimmed with tears and she shook her head and finally got out the word, “Yes!”

                Time spun faster as the wedding approached, so many arrangements to make and John away on business more and more. Until, suddenly, the day arrived. More quickly than she had imagined, she stood before the mirror thinking that this would be the beginning of a whole new life. She could not have been more right.

                The roses had been delivered in a glass vase; a dozen long-stemmed ruby roses bearing a card that read, “Happy Anniversary.” Standing beside the window, gilded with the morning sun, Chelsea gazed out across the courtyard reflecting upon John’s comments that morning as he packed his bags yet again… A month in Tokyo, another eternity, when she had turned away toward the window he had said, “I love you, Chelsea. I will miss you – please come and kiss me goodbye.” Something in her hesitation

had made him ask, “Do you love me? You do love me, don’t you?” How could she have responded with anything other than truth? How could he have asked her that when he knows how his touch still caused her to melt in his arms?

January 17, 1961

“Do I love you? How can I express? I love you – I love you – I love you; it is at once a blessing and a curse. For all that I love you, I long to be free. Have you ever thought, even for a moment, about what your love has done to me? It has killed me… This person you see before you is not me; I long ago ceased to be. This is a shell bearing my resemblance who has become what you need her to be; but even in this shell, the heart cries out, ‘do not love me, let me be me; only do not leave me for I cannot bear to be apart. Is there no room for me beside you, not as your mirror but as your mate?’ Oh how I long for your touch. I long for your kiss upon my lips. My heart aches as I lay here upon sheets of silk, wrapped in anguish without you. My body betrays me for I know your love is a poison. I know I should run, run as far and as fast as I can. Yet my heart thrills at the sound of your steps; anticipation builds as I lay waiting. At last, when your breath falls upon my skin, sheets are cast onto the floor as our bodies move together until we become one. Such passion, such bliss, if only I could die there in your arms. The only mar upon that moment is that the morning will come and I shall wake alone, tangled in silk sheets. I love you. I love you. I must find a way to be free. You touch me and I am lost in your presence, totally enraptured with your words. When I awake to find you gone, the search for an escape begins again. My determination is renewed. This is a prison more cruel than most, my love for you can only be compared to the depth of my loneliness when you go away. I cannot endure another parting.”

June 2, 2011

                “Alas, I have traded one prison for another. I walk through life alone, beholden to no one… And yet my heart is a prison of its own making, for I cannot forget his love, his face, his touch… Just the thought of his kiss sets my pulse racing and in that moment I would crawl naked across the world to lie in his arms once more. Is my heart a traitor or am I the one who is guilty? In my quest to be the person I thought I was to be, I threw away the part of me that I loved the most. Oh treacherous love what has become of me? Where can this lost soul find solace? Years have worn away the beauty of life; I look forward only to death, this prison finally to escape…”

                On an afternoon in June, Chelsea wandered from her car across the park toward the river walk, hoping to cast some crumbs to the fish and spend the afternoon living in memories. As she neared the bridge she sighed in disappointment, someone was sitting at her table. Chelsea dug in her purse for the crumbs she had saved and shuffled over to the rail, the fish scrambled together to snatch her offerings and she laughed at them for their impatience. The breeze took strands of her hair from its clasp and she turned her face to the sun, closing her eyes as she let its warmth soak in. A voice came from behind her saying, “Beautiful day,” and for a moment her heart stopped… Then with tears in her eyes she replied, “Yes, beautiful,” and turned to see the man at the table smiling at her. “I come here every day and sit here at this table in the afternoon in hope that you might come… “Oh John, John” she cried… “I have missed you – I have missed…” “Shhh, my love, shhh… let me take you home.” John said. Together they left the park, John led her into the house and they lay together through the night lost in raptures of love. As the sun rose and shone through the window it fell upon their faces both serene in loves last embrace.