Never would I ever...

We were never ever (ever) getting back together. But she walked through the door looking like sunshine and a smile and I thought, “well yes, it’s poison.” But it tasted like chocolate covered cherries. How could I not have just one?

The human capacity for self-delusion is strong and nothing resembling that old relationship had presented itself in the weary decade that followed. A long dry winter of endless months. One can try to ignore it, try to believe it doesn’t matter and things are so much better and saner now but when the Master returns the pup jumps and drools and runs circles of delight. It’s a ridiculous display but it is welcome, oh so welcome. This welcome is what creates a dog person. The unbridled love and joy.

Such a pup was I, once again.

I remember the bright summer sun that poured through the windows of the old farmhouse. I remember lying in her arms knowing that I was home again (just for a visit now, don’t forget). There are few people in the world who can provide that feeling of home and when they are lost we are homeless.

She played her part well, she seemed to be so tremendously grateful to be there, she was charming and warm and affectionate. I drifted off to sleep wrapped in happiness like a newborn in the most comfortable soft blanket.

In the morning I was startled awake by movement in the corner of the bedroom. A large stuffed gorilla I did not recall owning was vibrating enough that the balloon it held was swaying back and forth. I jumped up and shouted, “Hey! Who are you? Get out of here now!” a pre-teen boy with dark hair and big brown eyes emerged from the gorilla suit and darted through the front door.

As I chased him through the entrance, I saw that my backpack lay in the threshold. Picking it up it was clear that the wallet was gone, the bag was empty except for a hairbrush and a half-crushed pack of Marlborough Light cigarettes. They were her smokes, and I was hit with an overwhelming urge to smoke although I had quit and had been living on nicotine gum for the past 3 years. I fished out the last one and lit up. Another old vice retuning for a limited time engagement. I almost remembered who I had been when I had been happy.

Thinking now with the benefit of smoke curling round my head, I realize she may have had a part in all this. Wasn’t that boy with her last night, outside of the house? He had disappeared at our reunion, but now suspicion snuck into my heart. Had she known he would do this? Was she part of this robbery?

Confronting her about it loudly (like old times) I see her smirk and deny she knew anything about it. He was just some kid who followed her down the path to the house, of course she didn’t know him and of course I would think the WORST POSSIBLE thing about her every time. But that smirk had spoken the words my heart knew were true. She had begun to morph into someone else, her hair was now shoulder length and she looked like a different person, although I knew she was still her.

It occurred to me that this robbery was literally kid’s stuff compared to the danger that she could bring. I didn’t discount that this old snake was a heartless sociopath who may be compelled to do anything up to and including throat slitting if it benefitted her. Wasn’t that the reason I left in the first place?

Grifters are charming. They are loving when they are getting what they want. They are seductive and know the words that your heart longs to hear. They are quite capable of creating the home your heart craves. Then it vanishes, like the wallet and credit cards I would spend the rest of the day cancelling. They turn into someone you don’t know right in front of your eyes. The snake wraps itself like a cobra around the heart and gives it a squeeze.

It seems that the highest mountain top experiences are always followed by a directly proportional low that sinks joy like a stone in the river. What is the lesson in this?

Is happiness a dangerous playmate? Should love be shunned at all cost or is the point of the whole mess that we risk it. We take the chance on love, knowing it could be a kick in the teeth and likely will be, but those few minutes of joy and home are mine forever to keep and to dream about fully ten years later. Because a dream is exactly what this was.

I wake up in my real home, in my real bed, in my bleak winter of life.

Consolation is finding my backpack right where I left it last night, full with wallet and credit cards. She is gone again, of course she is. Dreams are the only place I am likely to see her again.

The joy of the reunion is a memory that doesn’t fade as I jot down the details in my journal.

The joy of feeling at home is all she has left me, yet I thank her for the visit as I roll into the cold and very real day ahead.

S.M. Santora