SHE

[February 14, 2014]

Every Valentine’s Day, I always remember what was told to me by the former Pastor Sam who is now called The Doctor. It’s something like, the sweetest song for your one and only is Julio Iglesias’ “To All The Girls I’ve Loved Before.”

They’re all indeed worth remembering, truly. But some would stand above the rest, like she.

“She may be the face I can’t forget; The trace of pleasure or regret; Maybe the treasure or the price I have to pay…” Told you, I memorized these lyrics when I was six since it was played continually in front of our house from the jukebox of Nang Jessy. Thus, when destiny’s joke had started and our paths crossed after exactly two decades, I was so sure she’d be the “she” I’d refer to in that song, and the one I’d dub “The Face.”

Told you further, she’s more precious than rubies or Gollum’s ring that flees, even far more irresistible than the combined Cadbury, M&M and Kisses. She’s the chief cause if not the main reason why I came to know there’s a flower called Chrysanthemum. But most of all, in view of her beauty’s pull and her charm’s magnetic force, I went on to discover that roses were not just red but they come too in various colors.

If not for her, I could not overcome my natural fear of slight darkness. More so of the eerie stillness of a soundless night, pitch black, moonless. But I said the moment has come, where a boy should be separated from a man. And when I commenced taking steps heading for that doorway, I was pretty sure only of two things, either a heart’s death or love’s liberty.

How did I love her? I did not count the ways. I would not count the ways. I could not count the ways. You tell me, how could one count or figure something when there's blinding sunray always, and tremors, the moment he sees her face? She was life’s seasons’ great equalizer in whatever phase.  My world had only one color whether during a dry spell or rainy days.

She was a barometer of what one could be capable of doing when something’s gotta give, or take, when his heart overflows with love rooted from the deep. That’s why I discovered through her that when a man loves a woman, awakened or in deep sleep, he would not just love, he would worship.

Therefore, some love would not prosper because we’d be no more aware that the Real Author of Love is only taken for granted, if not neglected, when such human love he thought as whole lot better. Ignoring what we learned from the beginning as taught by the Psalmist to delight ourselves in Him so that He’d give us the desires of our hearts for the fulfillment of a True Love forever (Psalms 37:4).

She will always be out there like a shining star. Only the eye could reach her from afar. A living proof in life, of dreams, that all others are dull and drab. Ask the dead poets, there’s no living feeling other than the unrequited love.

Someone may continue singing, “She maybe the reason I survive; The why and wherefore I’m alive.” And “The meaning of my life is she.” But I’d say, “Happy Valentines, 'she'”...#