Beauty and the Mustache

Our first Christmas together was a happy one because it was spent with our family surrounded by people who loved us.

Although, I could have done without Sandra leading the twins in a rendition of “She’ll Be Coming Down the Mountain When She Comes”—note the verbiage change.

As well, Momma’s bits of wisdom whispered in my head from time to time. Happiness and rheumatism keep getting bigger if you tell people about them. She was right. Sharing happiness with my family made it feel bigger.

With the whispered words came a big ah-ha moment. I realized that those seemingly random sayings, the ones I didn’t understand at the time, were her way of telling me everything I might need to know. They were how she tried to answer all the questions I wouldn’t be able to ask after she was gone. I was so thankful.

They gave me comfort. They gave me peace. And they made me feel like she was still here somehow, guiding me along my clumsy path.

Drew and I still had issues to discuss and details to work out. I still needed to go back to Chicago, give notice, find a job in Tennessee, and go through the motions of uprooting my life so that we could be together. So we could live each other every day.

It was a hassle. I didn’t want to leave him, but life is hard. Change takes time. And change that is lasting takes planning and care.

On the day before I was set to fly back to Chicago—since I didn’t have my truck, I wasn’t going to drive—I found Drew in our wildflower field. He was sitting on the cold ground surrounded by dead stalks and stems.

He appeared to be staring at the mountain above our valley, eyes squinting, elbows resting on his knees. His cowboy hat was in his hands, and his fingers held it lightly, like he trusted the hat to stay put without having to support its weight.

I was bundled in a blanket from the house. It was the old quilt that covered my bed, and it reminded me of my mother. She and my grandmother had worked on it just before my grandmother died. My momma had finished the quilt on her own.

“Hey, care for company?”

Drew glanced over his shoulder, a welcoming—albeit almost imperceptible—smile warming his features. “Always, if it’s you.”

I crossed to where he sat. The snow had melted then refrozen, leaving ice on the ground. It crunched under my boots with each step.

We stayed like that—him sitting, me standing—for a few minutes. The world was cold. The wind smelled like ice. The trees had lost all their leaves. The top of the mountain was covered in snow.

“Poetry isn’t for civilized society.” Drew said this suddenly, breaking the moment, but then saying no more.

I decided to prompt him when I sensed he would not continue without a push. “How so? I’ve read plenty of safe-for-work poetry.”

“I’m not talking about greeting cards and sentimentality, not the stuff that gently warms your heart or makes you feel nostalgic.” He lifted his eyes to mine, his expression stark and sober. “I’m talking about the kind that burns you, leaves scars, the kind that you regret reading because you can’t forget it. It’s a wild, feral thing. It has claws and it bites.”

I studied him as he said this, how his eyes flamed with ferocity. I wondered if the same could be said about him. He was a bit of a wild, feral thing. I didn’t doubt that he would leave a scar. I’d been given a sneak peek into what it would be like if he decided one day that I wasn’t his cup of sweet tea.

I closed the remaining distance separating us and took a seat next to him; lifting the quilt so it wouldn’t get wet and not particularly caring whether the frost covering the ground made my pants damp.

Drew glanced at me, his gaze quickly taking a survey of my face. “You look like you want to say something.”

“I wondered….” I hesitated because my thoughts weren’t fully formed. Rather than keep him waiting, I spoke what I felt. “I wondered, when I first arrived, why Momma put so much trust in you. But I think it was because she’d read your poetry. Reading it is knowing you. Poetry is the representation of feelings as words. It reveals a person’s heart.”

He studied me, his silvery eyes flashing as they moved between mine. “I’m glad you know my heart, because you are my heart.”

I smiled. I couldn’t help it. I smiled so hard it hurt my face and I thought I might sprain something.

He didn’t seem to mind. His eyes grew soft, distracted as they moved from mine to my lips. “You ruin me with your smiles.”

I frowned, shaking my head at him.

“What? What did I say?”

“You’ve got to get the poetry under control, otherwise I’ll drag you into my room and we’ll never leave, I’ll never find a job, we’ll become sexy hobos.”

I was gratified to see a massive grin spread over his features, lighting his eyes. He lifted a single eyebrow, his voice dipping low with Texas charm. “Really? Then allow me to say….”

I cut him off by covering his mouth with my hand. “Yes, really. I’ll become a sex addict and need counseling, maybe start going to sex addict anonymous meetings.” I removed my hand and pulled it through my hair, adding as an afterthought, “Which aren’t at all that anonymous in Green Valley, Tennessee, because everybody knows everybody.”

“I’m not thinking about everybody. I’m thinking about your body.”

I nudged his shoulder with mine, enjoying the way a smile changed his face. His eyes became the color of a luminous sky, his mouth and teeth framed by his bushy beard.

Without intending to, I blurted, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He said without hesitation.

My heart skipped in my chest; it was a happy heart skip. “Really? Are you sure? You know, I have trouble believing anything that’s not written down. Maybe you should write a book about it.”

“About it?”

“About how much you love me.”

“I already did that.” He squinted at me, and I could tell he was trying to fight a smile.

“I know.” I couldn’t help my grin. “Write another one. And after that one is done, write another…then another.”

“How long am I expected to write books on this subject?”

“For as long as you love me.”

“Then I guess I’ll be writing about it for the rest of my life.”

Epilogue - Meet Drew

“Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry.”

? W.B. Yeats

“I think Alex and Sandra are coming for Christmas,” Ashley says to me from the other end of the couch. “It was nice visiting them in Chicago over Halloween, taking the kids out with Fiona, but I think he likes your fishing excursions.”

I nod, listening. Sandra and Alex are our family, and I want them to stay in Tennessee. I have told Alex this. Through Ashley’s chosen family, I have found the benefits of society. They are vast, and these relationships are priceless.

“Also, I’d like for you to admit that I made an excellent point about the flaws in Linas Vepstas passage of time theory. I’m not saying I believe in predestination, but as my momma would say, predestination makes everything part of the plan.”

“It is an issue of quantum mechanics, Ashley, a universe of probability. Determinism of any sort is impossible.”

“Yes, but you assume time travel is impossible. Even Einstein never conceded as much. You and I are meant to be, and you’ve acknowledged that point. Therefore, you must admit that factors beyond our control, or perhaps our ability to comprehend, may have a hand in determining our path.”

“I admit nothing.”

“Typical….” She makes a little sound, and it makes me smile. “What are you writing?”

“Field notes.”

“If those are field notes then I’m a one-eyed Cocker Spaniel with halitosis.”

This makes me laugh, but I don’t stop writing. I think I’ve never laughed in my life as I have since knowing Ashley. She brings a spark to all things, lights every empty place.

“Read it to me,” she says, nudging me with her toes.

I look down, away from where my notebook rests on the side table. Her toes are painted pink, and they sparkle, and they are on my lap. She wiggles them like she’s waving at me with her feet.

“Please,” she says.

My eyes travel the length of her and enjoy her form. The shade and shape of her legs, heightened by shadows cast from the single light source. She’s reclining on the couch, eReader propped on her stomach.

Desires war. As such, I can only watch her in stillness.

I need her.

When I write, speaking is an obstacle. I struggle to abdicate thoughts that are shadows of my feelings and passions. Giving words to these feral impulses never does them justice because they are not my will; their course leads to no action, and expressing them is an exercise in unceasing frustration. But withholding them from the page is a path to insanity.

I once tried to burn the words, thinking passage through fire would release me. I was wrong. I mourned the loss, and rejoiced when I found the book had been saved.

“Drew, will you read it to me?” Her eyes remind me of the ocean.

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

Her smile widens. She peers at me as though she knows me. She does. She knows me.