Over the Christmas holiday, snow eat me!
otrdiena, 2009. gada 13. janvāris
svētdiena, 2009. gada 4. janvāris
Never ending, never changing rules about love. (or maybe they change, but I just haven’t got there yet?!)
I couldn’t accept the fact that my nan suddenly had a “boyfriend” one day. That was some time ago, I barely was a teen, and now the poor fellow is dead for quite a while and my grandmother, who was a divorced lady for almost 40years before him, is lone again.
My other grandmother lost her husband 30years ago and her other man 15long years ago. So I have used to think that it is Ok, to be alone in that age, simply because men die when it comes closer to the terms “old”, “grandfather”, and others with similar meaning.
And now the story is about my friend’s grandmother. She just might be as old as my grandmother or in the same age decade at least. The decade of eighty...
It seems to be a tendency- first husband is divorced or dead-, and after all those wounds have healed (and after some grandchildren have been raised) they meet their first loves or fall in love again.
He was introduced as Valdis, aunt Venera’s friend. Never the term “boyfriend” or any other kind of term is used by herself to describe why this old polite man actually is here, dining with us in a family-like-summer-evening-dinner.
The garden looked great: beautiful lilies blooming in most carefully made flowerbeds, cherry trees with little fruits, dark red and filled with a kind of sour passion for summer, strawberries more than the inhabitants of the old house possibly could eat. And there, in front of the LIEVENIS on two old CELMI they sat next to each other.
They belong together, they are together. It is beautiful and sad in the same time. So sweet and sentimental, that it is hard for me to understand it and describe it “back on white”.
They were sitting next to each other, looking bewildered, looking shy and confused like kids who like each other but are in the age when the other sex is “stupid-and I don’t like that boy/girl”. But they are not children, they are grownups and they have passed that threshold as well. They know how it is to taste the sweet fruit of passion, affection, other’s body and love, how nice it is to have someone and how refreshing it is not to be alone after more then ten years of being alone, not even having the slightest feeling for anyone else.
But they are not even holding hands! She is like a girl from a nunnery school who hasn’t seen a boy yet in her life, but feels the power of affection. He is like the biggest gentleman who is respecting this girl’s shyness and incompetence but is willing to wait till the girl is ready to be touched emotionally and maybe physically as well. But that moment might never come and he would still wait till the end of time.
Is there an age when physical contact dies or has to die and love has to be just closeness with a few centimeter distance in it?!
And after I saw the most charming couple my hart just dropped imagining that they will never touch, that they might not even need to, since they might not even have thought that far that they are free adults that can and, I think should, touch. Just to make it real, just to feel the other person and to humanize it, to make sure that the feeling of his skin and presence is real.
And tonight they were sitting next to me. Months later (or even years later), he still comes and visits her few moments a week and then takes the bus home again, never staying over and maybe never kissing his sweetheart goodnight.
But tonight it was a different kind of story.
I think I am like part of their hart. The emotions goes through me and I know how they feel, I see them beautiful and they make me happy as much as it makes them happy. I am a shy girl who will be silent as soon as there will be someone more attractive and active.
And poor Venera is like I am: so correct, so peaceful, so perfect little miss sunshine, giving way as soon as a more powerful character comes in the room.
And in Venera’s range of people that was my grandmother. She is a actress, always have been and will be, she is almost as loose in her language and pasting herself as I am trying to be polite to her. She knows that man. He is a very, very distant relative of hers, so it made her even braver and more outspoken than ever.
Realizing that the attention that is most seeked in the evening poor Venera turned quiet and I think I recognized a sad look on her face. But there is no prove that what I saw was incorrect, was false.
“Well I think, in the end of the day, she wins being like that. It is important to win the war, not the battle.”
“I so understand your point”. But after a moment our little conversation with my friend loses its positive note. “But if it is a battle that you would have to win every day?!”
“Then she would give up the war itself!”
Maybe she didn’t feel half the things I felt for her, maybe it is just that the rules have changed within her and I, being so young and so in love right now, can’t accept some other woman taking all the attention from me or from her in this case.
I have given way for more out speaking girls around me, I have wished to throw a bottle of wine at someone who can’t shut her perfect little mouth that keeps bubbling towards “my guy”.
But my grandmother was taken home soon after I threw an imaginary wine bottle at her for these evenings’ sins and they could catch up with their conversation later on, sitting somewhere in the house in peace and quiet. And they still can be my object of confusion and admiration about the urge of touch, my joy for love in its most polite form.
My other grandmother lost her husband 30years ago and her other man 15long years ago. So I have used to think that it is Ok, to be alone in that age, simply because men die when it comes closer to the terms “old”, “grandfather”, and others with similar meaning.
And now the story is about my friend’s grandmother. She just might be as old as my grandmother or in the same age decade at least. The decade of eighty...
It seems to be a tendency- first husband is divorced or dead-, and after all those wounds have healed (and after some grandchildren have been raised) they meet their first loves or fall in love again.
He was introduced as Valdis, aunt Venera’s friend. Never the term “boyfriend” or any other kind of term is used by herself to describe why this old polite man actually is here, dining with us in a family-like-summer-evening-dinner.
The garden looked great: beautiful lilies blooming in most carefully made flowerbeds, cherry trees with little fruits, dark red and filled with a kind of sour passion for summer, strawberries more than the inhabitants of the old house possibly could eat. And there, in front of the LIEVENIS on two old CELMI they sat next to each other.
They belong together, they are together. It is beautiful and sad in the same time. So sweet and sentimental, that it is hard for me to understand it and describe it “back on white”.
They were sitting next to each other, looking bewildered, looking shy and confused like kids who like each other but are in the age when the other sex is “stupid-and I don’t like that boy/girl”. But they are not children, they are grownups and they have passed that threshold as well. They know how it is to taste the sweet fruit of passion, affection, other’s body and love, how nice it is to have someone and how refreshing it is not to be alone after more then ten years of being alone, not even having the slightest feeling for anyone else.
But they are not even holding hands! She is like a girl from a nunnery school who hasn’t seen a boy yet in her life, but feels the power of affection. He is like the biggest gentleman who is respecting this girl’s shyness and incompetence but is willing to wait till the girl is ready to be touched emotionally and maybe physically as well. But that moment might never come and he would still wait till the end of time.
Is there an age when physical contact dies or has to die and love has to be just closeness with a few centimeter distance in it?!
And after I saw the most charming couple my hart just dropped imagining that they will never touch, that they might not even need to, since they might not even have thought that far that they are free adults that can and, I think should, touch. Just to make it real, just to feel the other person and to humanize it, to make sure that the feeling of his skin and presence is real.
And tonight they were sitting next to me. Months later (or even years later), he still comes and visits her few moments a week and then takes the bus home again, never staying over and maybe never kissing his sweetheart goodnight.
But tonight it was a different kind of story.
I think I am like part of their hart. The emotions goes through me and I know how they feel, I see them beautiful and they make me happy as much as it makes them happy. I am a shy girl who will be silent as soon as there will be someone more attractive and active.
And poor Venera is like I am: so correct, so peaceful, so perfect little miss sunshine, giving way as soon as a more powerful character comes in the room.
And in Venera’s range of people that was my grandmother. She is a actress, always have been and will be, she is almost as loose in her language and pasting herself as I am trying to be polite to her. She knows that man. He is a very, very distant relative of hers, so it made her even braver and more outspoken than ever.
Realizing that the attention that is most seeked in the evening poor Venera turned quiet and I think I recognized a sad look on her face. But there is no prove that what I saw was incorrect, was false.
“Well I think, in the end of the day, she wins being like that. It is important to win the war, not the battle.”
“I so understand your point”. But after a moment our little conversation with my friend loses its positive note. “But if it is a battle that you would have to win every day?!”
“Then she would give up the war itself!”
Maybe she didn’t feel half the things I felt for her, maybe it is just that the rules have changed within her and I, being so young and so in love right now, can’t accept some other woman taking all the attention from me or from her in this case.
I have given way for more out speaking girls around me, I have wished to throw a bottle of wine at someone who can’t shut her perfect little mouth that keeps bubbling towards “my guy”.
But my grandmother was taken home soon after I threw an imaginary wine bottle at her for these evenings’ sins and they could catch up with their conversation later on, sitting somewhere in the house in peace and quiet. And they still can be my object of confusion and admiration about the urge of touch, my joy for love in its most polite form.
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