After the love has gone

How many men did you seriously love?” asked my amiga.  “Maybe two or three, not counting your kumpadre,” I replied.

“How many had gone yonder, past the pearly gates?”

“I have no idea,” came my reply.  “None of my past loves had kept the lines open, in deference to my married status, I guess.” 

“Well, if you married your Lover No. 1 or Lover No. 3, you would be a true-blue Bluesette, by now.”

“Oh no!”  You mean they’re both gone?”

“Uh-huh, quietly and unceremoniously.”

I took a moment to reflect.

Just how much of their early demise would have been attributed to a failed romance?  I was saddled with guilt because I broke their hearts.  Would I have wished for a different course to break it more gently than I did?  They were gallant, generous, and kind, giving me some of the most tender and starry-eyed moments that any girl would have swooned over.

 One time, Lover No. 1 sent me long-stemmed roses with a note, “My love, just because ....”  I was like a whirling dervish, or Julie Andrews, with the breathtaking mountains of Salzburg in the backdrop.  I was catching the wind and singing, “Isn’t it romantic?” 

“Why did you dump him?” 

I was 16, barely aware that boys could do better than just pester their female siblings to exhaustion.  He stole a glance, I giggled.  He sat next to me, that tiny space turned into an electric hub.  He held my hand, my eyes rolled like in a kaleidoscope.  When I stood to take a step, a cushion of marshmallowy clouds lifted me from the ground.

“So, it must have been love,” my friend assumed. 

“If it was, it was short-lived,” I surmised. “He gazed into my eyes and boldly suggested,  ‘Let’s elope.’  Panic raced up my chest.  ‘And break my mother’s heart? No Sir-ee,’ I countered.  In a do-or-die attempt to convince me, he went down on his knees, pleading and begging, ‘No!  You don’t mean that.’  I got so scared that I shut back, ‘Let’s call it quits!’  The firmness and the finality of the tone of my voice astonished me.  I was immovable.”

“Do you know that your Lover No. 1 migrated to London and became one of the top radiologists there?  But his dedication to his profession must have exacted a heavy price because he died of cancer.  When I last saw him, he gave out a big sigh and confided in me, ‘I still think of her, you know.’” 

He was a true romantic.

In the case of Lover No. 3, he was able and ready to settle down.  I was 21 and bursting with enthusiasm over the rewards gained from being gainfully employed.  I was eager to blaze a trail.  In my list of priorities, romance ranked a poor third.  He painted a beautiful world exactly like how Louis Armstrong had sang about it.  In his mind, there was no struggle — big, bad or bold — that a brazen confidence could not conquer.  Nothing could bring him down.  He had all these grandiose dreams that seemed attainable.  “So long as you are next to me, sweetheart,” he said.

He was an optimist.

“I caught up with your Lover No. 3 in a trade fair in Zurich,” continued my friend.

“Of all places!” I thought.

“He recognized me immediately,” she said.  “He took my arm and led me inside a pretty tea salon.  He looked the same except for a few worry wrinkles.  He still talked of those grandiose plans although they were now on the back burner.  Not once did he mention your name, but when I stood up to leave, he looked forlorn and uttered, ‘Even now, I still think of her.’”

“Ano ka ba?  What a heart breaker you turned out to be,” she cried.  “By the way, what about Lover No. 2, what ever happened to him?” 

 I coughed and vaguely whispered,  â€œLover No. 2 broke my heart, shattered it into tiny pieces.”

“Aha!  So he did!” exclaimed my friend. 

 Of course, she knew that.  She probably just wanted to rekindle the ember of sorrow.

 This was life’s fair exchange.  Everyone experiences, at one time or another, a world — your world — seemingly coming to a bitter end.  You struggle to catch the rainbow through a veil of tears.

 There was music playing in the background and I paused to listen.  It was Frank Sinatra singing one of his saloon songs,

Would you take the wings from birds so that they can’t fly?
Would you take the ocean’s roar and leave just a sigh?

All these, your heart won’t let you do, this is what I beg of you, PLEASE, don’t take your love from me.

My friend choked and tears were welling in her eyes, “I always believe that without a hurt, the heart is hallow.  Still, how wonderful to have fallen in love, isn’t it?”

Isn’t it?