Her
What a strange illusion it is to suppose that beauty is goodness. ~ Leo Tolstoy
~*~
I pulled into the expansive garage, turned off the motor, and just sat there, thinking of all the things that could go wrong, and likely would, once I made my extremely belated appearance. I had to ward off the urge to turn around and leave but, instead, I blinked away the nudging discomfort, took a deep, cleansing breath, and opened the car door. I stepped out, closing the door behind me as quietly as possible.
If anyone was home, I didn’t want to alert them to my presence – not just yet.
Carefully, I unzipped the secret pocket on the inside of my black barrel bag, slipped the key from inside, and let myself in through the side entry. After closing the heavy door with a soft click, I locked it, set the dead-bolt, and stood there – unmoving – feeling my heart mete out my apprehension and foreboding, while I tried to steady myself and marshal my thoughts. When I calmed a little, I tiptoed over to the alarm and reset it.
I started down the long breezeway, which led to the area where we kept our coats, shoes, tools and other necessities. As I neared the second entryway, I peeked into the keep, saw nobody, passed through the laundry, and quickly headed toward the coat room.
As I crept inside, the heavy chain of my purse fell from my shoulder and loudly bonked the doorjamb, making me freeze in place. I caught the bag before it hit the floor, but felt a spike of adrenaline set my heart racing, and my ears buzzing, as my breath caught in my chest with a snap. I held it there, stiff and waiting, imagining someone would soon come from behind, put a muzzle to my head and blow me away, before realizing that it was me – after all, she probably wouldn’t recognize me – I did look very different.
And that’s when I heard the music piping throughout the house and realized, with a sigh of relief, that it was slightly too loud for anyone to have noticed my bungle.
I slipped out of my down jacket, hung it up, then sat down on the cherry wall-bench, and began untying my muddy boots. It felt so good to get them off. I groaned with satisfaction as I rubbed my sore, tired feet, then placed the worn boots neatly under the bench. I removed my socks, walked over and tossed them into the hamper, washed my hands, then quietly walked back to the entry that led into the casual dining area, and beyond that, the kitchen.
She was home. As soon as I entered the main house I could smell the wonderful aroma of her signature pie. It smelt of granny smiths, cinnamon, nutmeg, and sugars… sweet, warm and delicious. It was good to be home.
The kitchen was located at the rear of the house, thankfully, and I had hoped, considering the fact that she spent most of her time there, or in her studio or the office study, that she hadn’t heard nor seen me pulling up the drive. It would have ruined everything. I wasn’t ready for any sort of confrontation after where I’d been. And, not wanting to attract her attention, I just stood quietly, inside the keep, and peered around the door frame to catch a glimpse of her.
She was standing at the double sink, with the water running, vigorously trying to remove the sticky dough from her pale fingers. I could tell that she was becoming frustrated, which only made me smile. I savored the tender moment as I listened to her hum along with Maria…
And continued to watch, wondering at the emotional landscapes that she seemed to be traveling, as I listened along…
…♪♫…la cupa via! Guardo!…♫♪…
Suddenly, she stopped washing, dried her hands on her apron, began to sway with the tempo, and started singing, ‘Bruciava il loco di mia culla’ with such intensity and raw feeling, that I immediately felt the sharp, stinging shock of repressed tears well in my eyes, threatening to spill over…
…♪♫…Bruciava il loco di mia culla… Cosi fui sola… E intorno il nulla… Fame et miseria… Il bisogno, il periglio…Caddi malata…♫♪…
As I listened on, I felt an overwhelming mixture of deep emotions bloom in my chest and spread, putting a squeeze on my heart… almost as if we were sharing the same skin – I could feel her thoughts, see the truths in her heart, knew her quiet, hidden secrets, her hopes, her fears… and briefly, I experienced the realness of her.
In that moment, we were connected, and I knew exactly how she felt. And then it was gone. I wasn’t sure if it was the beauty of the music, of her, her voice, Maria’s voice, the message and meaning in the song, or my own inner turmoil that had churned up such a tempest inside of me, but it weighed on me – heavily.
I desperately wanted to go to her; wanted to run to her, wrap my arms around her and hold her against me, smell her, talk to her, ease her troubled mind, and take away her worries. I wanted her, no, needed her to know that everything would work itself out – exactly the way it was supposed to – and that I was here; that wherever her head was, and whatever it was that she was feeling, that it was okay, that it was normal – and that she had every right to feel those things.
I wanted to tell her that I was sorry.
~*~
[...] Her [...]