On Time

On Time

The first time he shuffled into the classroom my heart stopped. Twenty minutes late yet the only thing that felt on time.  It was like a knife cutting through the monotony of the people that surrounded these four walls. Looking away as to not be detected, like a thief stealing a sideways glance. It took us weeks of missed interactions before the coldness of an open window made it possible for words to be exchanged. My mind argued before my lips opened as I saw his jacket covered in floral patches lying crumpled on the floor unused. Shaking from the harsh weather conditions, my confidence finally stood up. I made eye contact leaning over with a question. Normally words project out of the hole in my face like tractor beams to anyone willing to listen. This was a whisper. Every nerve ending flashed before the smell of his hippie perfume wrapped around my shoulders like the fur on some exotic animal. The smell was disgusting and perfect. I didn’t want to give it back. It lingered for months only in my memories before my life was again interrupted by his presence.

I was the trainer meant to be teaching lessons for personal growth. Insight on how to counsel the tormented souls of the homeless and mentally insane. The insanity sparked a connection that was ignited with a byproduct of philosophical conversations. Through the cracked openness of the summer that followed he would carry me on his back like a sack of potatoes. A child came out that had been hidden in the depths of a traumatic ocean drowning, flailing, losing consciousness. He resuscitated the trust allowing for light beams to shine their goodness into the broken pieces other men had left in the rain to collect rust. It was like molten gold that burned into my soul.

There was a gap between the closeness and reality. His eyes glazed over in a distance where he was unreachable yet lying next to me. To draw him back into us I would become a map that might guide him out of the valley so he could see the view from the higher point where I was loving.  Through a game of ticking or silent pleas that he might actually see me. It was morning a bird flew from my fence into the clouds. Attention turned against the hours we had spent discussing possibilities of future. Again the focus was on how I was not. Could not. Be good enough. Heavy is the burden of a man not ready for a commitment. The light bulb flickered as the door closed and engine started. The world taught me yet again that change is the only constant.

The merry go round of that relationship left a feeling of sickness in my stomach. The way his brown eyes matched his teddy bear hugs. Obsessively dwelling on the current space he might be occupying the anarchist in me want to break my own rules. I stay strong like the woman before me who have paved the way so that I have the right to work towards equality. At night in the darkness I still plea that the light might return and fill the gap that was created through miscommunication. The last time he hurried out of our understandings my heart stopped. I can’t help but hold onto the idea that he just might be twenty minutes late yet the only thing that feels on time.