In a fine, fertile land of a happy time long ago lived a Prince who fell in love with a fair young Princess. At night he would think of her soft blond hair and her year-round fragrance of honeysuckles. Her kisses were as soft and wet as morning dew. The songs of angels could not compare to her assuring and well articulated, enticing sounds from Heaven and smell of baby's breath.
Gosh, how he loved her.
She would dream of marrying this sometimes shy Prince. From deep inside she would image what it would be like to birth and raise children from his strong loins. Sometimes she would blow imaginary kisses to her opened window destined for his welcoming reception. She would alternate between hugging her second pillow as a symbol of him and maybe in a split second the pillow would be a new born child they had brought into the world. Tomorrow seemed just a few happy dreams over the moonlighted western horizon. Sometimes she would shiver at the thought of sharing her entire life with this nearby Prince.
Maybe poets, philosophers, and physicians have names for what happened next. The Prince could only call it a broken heart. He never knew what terminology the Princess may have used, if she used any at all. One half of a century would speed by before he heard her voice again. Time and distance, plus second best marriages kept them apart. During periods of regular reflective thought he would often be on the verge of insanity trying to replay and repair what was the reasons this storybook romance stopped so suddenly and without meaningful reasons.
He conquered all of his kingdoms, accomplished all of his goals, and was by any definition, a real achiever and life success. He would have gladly traded all of the plaques, awards, plaudits and all the trappings of an apparent Mt. Everest climber for just one morning of awakening with the sleeping Princess cradled in his right arm. To see her eyes open and have them aimed at his and mutually move toward each other in a good morning kiss. No words, no dream retelling, no plans for the day, just that unspoken God-given communication between a man and his wife.
Most fables have some sort of happy ending. This one is like a 45 point deficit in a basketball game, a doctor sadly shaking his head toward a grieving spouse, or a drive-by shooting with the Prince's name on the next 9mm. The game clock is in hyper mode and all of the coach's time outs have already been used. This fable started in bless but will be concluded with only memories and dreams that have faded from HD to a very, very poor quality black and white.
Glenn <><
Just West of Yesterday
No comments:
Post a Comment