When I am old I know that I will still remember the sound of how we began again. Though my eyes may dim, my heart may slow, I will never forget the sound of the ocean, hundreds of miles away and yet right outside my window. In my tiny third floor bedroom, gabled and tin roofed, we began again. One night became two, one day became several, and an idea became real. We lay there, you and I, every night and that summer we were blessed with rain, and the sound of the sea.
My bedroom had little more than a bed and a dresser, and a lamp. Almost claustrophobic, the walls slanted in to the shape of the almost Victorian roof. If it weren’t for the two windows it would have been little more than a walk in closet. Bringing you in there, opening my room, my heart, and my bed, became even more intimate because the space was so confined. Like unwrapping the smallest present under the tree to find that good things really do come in small packages. Finding you in this way, again, was tremulous… as I waited to see if this time something true could grow from the seed of passion’s past.
I remember when the rains started. I was gradually wakened that night to the sound of it falling hard on our metal roof. The sound was constant and strong, a steady thrumming that blurred together into a wall of sound, alive in it’s intensity and auditory pulse. I love the rain, I always have. I remember changing into my bathing suit, quick like a bunny, so I could run around the lawn, standing under the pounding crash of the gutter spout, assaulted, shrieking, and loving every minute of it. This rain brought back those memories in a rush, what it felt like to be young and in love with being silly and free. The storm pounded the windows and walls and I reveled in its fury, safe in the dark haven of your arms.
That morning I woke before you, as I always do, and to my dismay the rain had stopped. In its stead I was graced by what can only be described as the sound of ocean waves. For a moment I was confused, though I don’t normally awake dulled or disoriented. When last I checked, the ocean was two and a half hours away. I couldn’t make sense of the ebb and flow that flooded the room. I shook you awake, “Listen, it sounds like the ocean!” I said, and you agreed. I gathered the sheet around me and knelt against the headboard, flush against the window frame, staring out at the early morning in wonder. You know I can’t let things rest, I just have to know. And suddenly, I did know.
Outside my window a maple tree leaned in close for a kiss, it’s leaves (on any other day) whispering against the screen, marking the seasons the way they always do. Each leaf glistened, soaked, the rain must have stopped only minutes before. The wind whipped up, roaring through the trees in a low moan. The leaves slid against each other, a mad wet friction, and that was it. That was the sound. It rose and fell, long and slow, like lovers with all the time in the world. I lay back down beside you and we entwined ourselves, like the leaves, surrounded on all sides by a wall of illusory sound and a very real joy in each other.
And so, when I am old I know that I will remember the sound of how we began again. How that summer we were blessed with rain, and how we lay together, surrounded by the sound of the sea.
