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Loved Loved
by Abigail George
2021-12-26 10:01:13
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It felt thrilling. This feeling and sensation deep inside of her that welled up like the sea. I am loved. I am loved. I loved. The girl sang around the house. This loss that came with this gain, well, to her it felt phenomenal. She cried into her hands. What will I do now that I have the world on a string. I am passionate. I am artistic. I am an angelic force of reason. I smile now. I laugh now. I am happy now. He brings her flowers. You bring me flowers, she said with a smile. I can't believe how romantic you are. I can't believe how sensitive and thoughtful and generous and giving and loving and sentimental you are.

loved00001_400In another life, perhaps my father would have met you. You would have asked him if you could marry me, don't you think. This frightened girl child said to the man who had the boy that he was still in his eyes. I think you are spectacularly beautiful, said the man in his winter coat. Yes, she said breathlessly and hugged him back deliriously happy. Is this bliss, Virgil. Is this what it is, she asked the man.

She was older by a year. He was younger by a year. Did it matter, did it matter, did it matter.

Do you believe in ghosts?

I believe in spaghetti, dearest love. Will you please make me some and some tea?

Of course, anything for you.

What kind of music do you like? Can I put this rinky-dink radio on?


What station should I put it on?

Anything you like, anything goes. I like what you like remember.

Yes, yes. I believe you do. It is ridiculous how you were once shy and insecure and frightened of everything and now that you have met me you are transformed.

She wrote to him daily. She wrote him long letters in a daydream. The day was long. The hours were filled with his silence. She would wait for him. Cook and clean the flatlet in which she lived. And she wondered if they would ever marry, if she would remain visible forever to him as she got older. As her hair turned white. As her hands became her mother's hands and then as arthritic as her paternal grandmother's. She had never known her mother's parents. She felt indescribably beautiful in a way. When he held her in his arms, when he kissed her lips, when she leaned into him, his warmth and authenticity she felt home. He was her sanctuary now. And she no longer had any need of Rilke or Updike. She was a woman in love. She was a woman loved.

He came up behind her and kissed her ear. She laughed and laughed and laughed.

Really, it is not that funny.
You're a poet.
Two poets in love. How will we live? How will we eat?
We will eat and pray and love.

Abigail George has two books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
"All about my mother" & "Brother Wolf and Sister Wren"
Download them, NOW for FREE HERE!



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