It is a normal day for everybody. Visible and audible movements of vehicles start to buzz around the suburbs, the indistinct susurrations of daily human activities and transactions commence, the daily breath of business stirs every human being to labor and satisfaction of needs - everything comes round and round ad infinitum.
Ordinary day is everyday. Nothing interesting, nothing special. But in my case, though nothing beyond expectation, everyday is a new special day. A brand new hope and opportunity of waking up enamored with a votive obligation.
Every morning I trot to the window, scampering in strides. My hands are on my face to steadily support my vision while my elbows are anchored on the window's inner brim. Either a small cup of coffee or a tall glass of water is beside me while seizing the delightful moment of observing the man of my fondest feeling. And this I do not fail to do every single day. As I said, it is a votive obligation, a virtue, or a tradition.
I always observe him in his lawn sitting, reading, and taking his coffee. He does this everyday without the slightest indication of staleness, and runs for about an hour or two to finish his daily morning endeavor. Right after finishing his task, he patches up all his things and goes inside and does his other matters in private.
I am not aware that the feeling I have for him is only a childish admiration, a general admiration for physical features. He is a bright man. Always appearing firm and certain. Strong built in his concrete and obvious stony forms of muscles.Tallest of all men in the neighborhood, for about 6 flat. All in all, as a handsome man, he could strike through the hearts of ordinary women, even the steel heart of a hostile spinster.
But as this daily privilege comes on and on, I am more than certain that word "love" falls short either as a description or as an explanation of my feeling. I am aware that I am turning crazy and dogged by this strong inner compulsion towards the man. I go nuts. I go wild.
Every morning I trot to the window, scampering in strides. My hands are on my face to steadily support my vision while my elbows are anchored on the window's inner brim. Either a small cup of coffee or a tall glass of water is beside me while seizing the delightful moment of observing the man of my fondest feeling. And this I do not fail to do every single day. As I said, it is a votive obligation, a virtue, or a tradition.
One might think that I am hopelessly weird or a psycho-stalker. Nah, I don't care. I do not give any serious attention on what people have to say with my daily happiness. I do this with full knowledge, will, and voluntariness. If this is immoral, let my soul suffer in hell as a dire consequence of this straight addiction or dissolution. But my happiness is my happiness. It is what it is. Happiness is the entirety of myself.
Years and years this happen without cessation. Every single morning is an offered devotion to see him without being seen myself. I have never been obstructed by some certain conditions of the outside world. Whether stormy or sunny or cloudy or windy, my heart remains steadfast and faithful in doing the same endeavor; whether spiteful accidents or incidents happen, I still insist on completing my day before even starting it. In short, my devotion to him has been all my life.
With this pure esteemed feeling and strong devotion, I have decided not to marry. This decision is from the rigid conviction that: if he's not the guy to be with me for the rest of my life, better not to marry and stay happily single. I am truly happy as of this moment of narration, but there's an important detail to know.
I am now old and kinky and close to decomposition. But I still feel young and vigorous, and my memory of our story is still all clear, untarnished with black spots of forgetfulness of minute details. I could do this narration everyday with enthusiasm. A narration that is normal, all too normal.
One morning of summer, when bustling my way to the window, I was not able to see the man. He was not in his daily moment! I fretted not and continued to speculate as to the reason of such a surprising disappearance. From this, I averted the work on that day. As a former bank officer, I had to bear in mind that it was better not to screw up delicate matters in the office, avoiding to cause more complex problems. I had to take a necesssary day of reflection and wait for troubling emotions to ease down.
Days passed by, I started to mourn. I started to cry. Huge space of void began to emerge and to consume other gay emotions that had residence in my heart.
As I continued to feel the agony, I heard indistinct loud conversations of teeming people outside. There were proper arrangments of chairs fronting the man's house. Indistinguishable texts on white-silverish stashes festooned on towering flowers side by side the very door. Some crowding people gathered around on a long brown table were picking white cups and dining utensils, lining up for the gray complexioned thermos which was in the hands of the first few people who wanted to refresh or warm themselves by sipping coffee.
It took me few minutes to wring out certainty from a smoggy confusion. I did not know what was happening. All it took was the conspicuous arrival of a funeral car service. Several men in black uniform went out from the car and dislodged a long glossy white coffin and placed it in front of all the people in attendance. When one of the men in black opened the coffin, a familiar image appeared as though it was a lightning-thunder that zapped my heart.
"J-J-Jesus! The man is dead! My man, my man! Ooohh, my man!"
It was all too painful and unacceptable, for how can one, a pure devotee and a faithful servant of love, could ever survive the world full of anguish and hate without the other? What is joy, what is sadness, what is everything when it has no connection with love? All my life, all my love, was solely dedicated to the man I loved at a walking distance. It was the man alone who was the succinct definition of love all I needed to know. Love was never for anything, but for everything about him.
By and by, I learned to accept that he was no longer alive and existent. I grew within years and years without an obligatory scamper towards the window just to see him. The fondest feeling resigned as a cold tomb inside every beautiful memory of him. I encountered days better though at times pangs of remorse paid unwarranted visitations.
I even wished to be cheeky enough to come out and introduce myself and hope for a possible unity with him. Unfortunately, I was not nurtured with a great courage to pursue the only man whom I ever loved in this world. Thus, I suffered hell in this life.
I continued a life without him anymore. I proceeded with the days without the feeling which turned me happy and made my total self. But one day, as I was heading to my workplace, to the bank, there was something that nearly distorted my sanity.
I was not a typical woman who constantly checked my mailbox for I convinced myself that my interest to other things had died after the man died. But one day, an inexplicably uncontrollable force inside was compelling me to unconceal it. Or was perhaps a raging curiosity? I checked my mailbox. Upon opening it, I noticed that there was something lodged inside: a white envelope! And I hurriedly tore its upper most portion out of my raging curiosity. Oh! A letter! It said:
"March 24, 1956
To the woman who never gets tired of peeking through the window:
Are you watching me over? I think it is funny to do that on a daily basis. Why don't you join me here everyday instead of peeking? Obvious you are because the beauty you have shines even behind the curtains of your window. Haha! It would be better to have good conversations over coffee.
I'd like to know your response. See you again tomorrow!
Truly yours,
Ruffu"