Most Of All, I Don’t Want To Forget Your Voice

I never believed in love at first sight. I never thought that the sight of someone could ever hit me so fast and with so much force that it could actually knock me over, piercing straight through to my heart with such strength that it could awaken emotions of which I was not sure I was capable.

Until it happened. Until she walked in.

Now, I wish I could tell you that this story has a happy ending. It doesn’t. I’m writing this while I sit on the floor of this empty bedroom wondering how I screwed up so badly as to let her walk out of my life.

But that day, I was sitting in the warm sun of the New England spring. It was that part of spring that was begging to give way to summer. I sat listening to my friends nearby speaking about their plans for the upcoming weekend, even though it was only Thursday.

Then, she walked up. I could barely see her approach as I squinted into the sun trying to make out the figure that was presenting itself. It took only a moment to realize that this was something special. As she stood in front of me, blocking the sun, I was able to run my eyes over the details of her face. Her hair. The way she brushed her curls out of her eyes. Her smile as it curled across her lips. Her lips, that leapt and danced as she spoke, giving her all the help she needed to form those perfect sounds that were… are… will always be her voice.

That voice. The one that spoke to me in ways no one else ever would. That voice. The one that told me, “I love you.” That voice. The one that told me, “No, come closer. Hold me,” every night as we went to sleep. That voice, and the power she holds in just her voice.

Those hands that I would hold. Those fingers that would brush my own hair out of my eyes just before moving down to find their resting place on my cheek.

I took all this in as she spoke to my friend. Then, just as quickly she walked away, fading into the sun as she went.

I turned to my friend and asked her name, where she was from. Anything he could tell me that would help me find my way to her. Anything that would lead me down the path to being the man she would tell she loved. The man she would beg to hold her closer at night, complaining whenever I would get more than inches away from her while we slept.

He told me her name, and that she was an amazing woman. He told me how good she was as a friend and that any man would be lucky to be with her.

I told him, “I’m going to be with her. And I’m going to be the luckiest man on this earth.”

And I was, for a little while. Unfortunately, I am also a foolish man.

As I said, this story does not have a happy ending. As I sit here on the floor of this empty room, in this empty apartment, I write.

I write so that I won’t forget. The curls that fell around her face. Those eyes that once looked at me as though I was the greatest man who ever lived. Those hands that once held mine.

And that voice. I write so that I won’t forget that voice.