Don't Say It
>> Sunday, January 5, 2014 –
how to say I love you,
I love you,
love,
Maine,
Paul
He is stirring green beans and butter in a
red plastic bowl when I realize that I could watch the way his long fingers grip
the fork for the rest of my life. He
scoops the beans out onto two plates, turns and hands me one while
raising an eyebrow.
“What?” he asks.
“Looks
good,” I reply.
They
are frozen green beans, nothing special.
Eat them and you will grow strong.
But there is a weakness growing inside of me and I can feel the tendrils
squeezing my lungs.
“Don’t
be the first one to say it,” my brother says.
“You will look silly.”
When
we drive along the rocky coast of Maine and watch the green ocean swell like it
is a living being larger than eternity I do not say it. When the snow dances and blankets the back
yard in a sea of white and clings to the branches of the pine trees I do not
say it. When the foolish moon kisses his sleeping face with horizontal shadows late
at night in the stillness of the bedroom I do not say it.
“Has
he told you yet?’ My brother asks.
“No,”
I say.
“Good.
If you tell him you will scare him away.”
Night
after night I watch him cook buttered green beans, turkey meatloaf Florentine, buffalo
chicken and listen as he pours out gurgling red wine. I tell him that I am not dating anyone else.
I tell him that he makes me laugh. I
tell him that I have never been this happy before, but I do not scare him away
because I do not tell him.
“I
have to say it.”
“Are
you sure?” My brother asks. “What if he
doesn’t feel the same way?”
His
question seizes me with doubt. I am a fool.
It is too soon. I pack up the
words and store them away. The ocean is simply
a body of water. The cold snow is
something to shovel and the moon is just a moon.
The
alarm has failed me and I am running late for work.
“Have
you seen my striped shirt?” I shout.
“It’s
hanging up in the closet. It’s ironed,” He shouts up the stairs.
“I
don’t have time for breakfast,” I say. “Where are my shoes?”
“They’re
by the door,” he says.
I
slip on my shoes. He is a smiling sentinel clutching a brown paper lunch bag,
the top creased underneath those long perfect fingers.
“It’s
breakfast,” he says.
My
lips graze his lips.
“I
love you,” it slips.
“Me
too, now get your ass to work before you’re late,” he says.
The
vine clutches my heart and squeezes the air out of my lungs as I run down the
steps.
“What
did he say?” my brother asks.
“I
am such a fool,” I say.
He'd told me long before I told him.