Restraint
Someday, I wished, I could call her My Home and she could call me the same.
Is it a blessing or a curse
To feel this aching need
To love and be loved?
Every night, I ask myself this question.
And every night, I stay up late.
Standing at the edge of the overpass, Sharon and I gazed down at the late-night city traffic. Robbed of its morning vibrance and urgency, the roadway lingered on like a lifeless soul.
I extended my hand to hers and she let me hold it, slowly but eventually. It was such a simple act — holding hands — but I could sense the emotional weight of it that she carried in her heart.
“Don’t you find silence uncomfortable?” I asked her.
She didn’t respond. So I turned to look. While her lips stayed shut, her eyes searched for the right words.
“Silence… could be deafening,” I continued. She smiled then— a smile laced with sadness that can only be perfected by time and trauma.
“But don’t you think…” she finally responded. “Empty words do more harm than unspoken words?”
Her hand gently pressed against mine. My heart raced for a couple of seconds, ready to act on my impulses and tell her things I always dreamed of saying to the love of my life.
But I… showed restraint. Because life broke her. Just like it broke me. Albeit in different ways.
I looked up at the night sky. The daylight was hours away, but I couldn’t help but ask: “Should we wait until the Sun rises and the city wakes up?”
“Maybe not now. The wait would be too long,” Sharon replied. She must have seen me crestfallen. So she added, “There might come a time when we don’t need to wait anymore.”
The metaphor was not lost on both of us. Then she let go of my hand, with a movement delicate enough to not make me feel stranded. It was time to say goodbye. We looked at each other and I could feel there was a small frozen moment when we studied each other’s faces. I didn’t know what she made of mine but I saw an innocent young face subtly hardened by the heartbreaks from the past.
As we left from opposite ends of the overpass, Sharon and I waved at each other. She was going home and I was going to a place I call home. Someday, the hopeless romantic in me wished, I could call her My Home and she could call me the same.
But I understood that was not tonight; not while we were among the shadows colored by the ghosts of the past. So, as I walked alone while midnight made its slow ascent to dawn, I told myself to wait.
For the skies to open up.
For the city to wake up.
For the wounds within to heal.
And, most importantly,
For the capacity to love that was lost to be found.
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