For years he wondered when and where he would encounter her again. For years, mind imagined. For years, mind played versions and moments of scene, and as none ever came, in passage of time and years, he gave up on the hope and, too, versioned ideals that such would ever come.
Then, in loss of the hope, forsake of ideal-dreams, as is the way of mystery and fates: moment came.
December Saturday on small town square where oaks and elms rose tall, orderly, and empty branched over courthouse lawn framed with cobbled roads and red-bricked storefronts that were mostly empty, insurance and lawyers’ offices, but where a few family stores still held on—he saw her.
She was still beautiful. His heart still paused and there touched a pang more of endearment than of lust—a change of spirit reached in time, in living, and refinement persistent prayer even when the last was never fully gone and he doubted first could be without element of other.
He was Christmas shopping. So was she. A little boy was by her side with eyes that shone as hers.
For all the times he thought on words that he would say, in happening, none arrived. In passage at street corner, two directions led to one, he only smiled: meek and without defense, deferent to an old-time awe.
She smiled back, a nod of recognition and brush of fallen hair away from face’s cover as with other hand, she held to her son’s.
As chance of fate would have, they moved for same place, a store of clothing—custom pritns and embroidery that made personal from the common.
He had wanted to make something. Apparently, so had she.
She moved for the front of store, and he looked upon racks of colored sweatshirts as she spoke and made her order; and when she moved away, he nodded once more. He smiled—simple signing of goodwill—and made for the place where she had left.
He ordered sweatshirts with printed prayer of his own inspired by that of a saint’s. On dark brown and hooded sweatshirts imitable of the cassocks worn by followers of the saint still identified by his name, in pale cream letters he had printed to front:
“Lord, bless a common sinner. In you I do believe;”
Printed to back:
“And should it be your will, make me an instrument of peace.”
It was something he wrote years ago that his soul repeated often—the prayer he prayed when no other came; spirit-words that gifted peace as prayed.
Order made, he turned around. Surprised, she remained.
Was there reason? Was there purpose of intent?
He wondered in his spirit as repositioned in stand before the counter half-focused to register and too on her in sift through rack of colored sweatshirts same as he had done when she stood in his place.
Receipt was printed. He paid then made his way to leave. Eyes met. She smiled, smile of a kind he himself had shone in first passing on the street: meek, unguarded, a more than was ever said.
“I just wanted to say hi,” she spoke.
Heart and body whirled still in raise and flutter of affinity.
“Well thank you for the words,” he responded, his soul, eyes, and face composed in appear of a spirit-smile. Unguarded, opened in spirit, he spoke words that then were gifted into him, “I always wondered what I’d say if I ever saw you again. Turns out, I still don’t have the words.
It is great to see you, and I guess maybe that’s what I hoped most to say—and mean it, and I do. Forgive me if I’m short on words.”
“You were always a better writer of your feelings,” she chided gently.
He blushed, and seeing his, her own hued through.
Her son looked at a navy sweater with a cowboy hat, a cow, and lasso in mid-throw embroidered in a heavy yarn. The boy thought on cowboy dreams of cowboy things far away from storeroom scene. The man knew his mother would raise her boy to be both strong and good.
He spoke to her a more, “You still are beautiful and, just seeing for a moment, I can tell that you are happy. I am glad for that for you. That is something you deserve.”
Greater smiles, a stronger meekness. There spoke no further words.
He loved her still. He loved not of a lust and want for self but love of desire and prayer for the best of another; a love of kind true lovers find is all real love ever is.