When I was seven, the Sun rose for me, shined on the flowers I picked for you, made sure that they were pure and full of life. I watered them for you and placed them in my backpack, adorning the books and pencil pouches. I stepped on the bus and day-dreamed about your reaction. I used to think I could be happy forever just holding your hand. I thought about writing you letters. The butterflies in my stomach were roaring, my palms were sweating and I think my heart skipped a few beats. I stepped off the bus and there you were, talking with your friends. I walked up to you, my intentions pure, and took the roses and tulips out of my backpack and handed them to you. Your eyes widened, you looked at me in my eyes, took the flowers and turned around. I thought you needed time, that you would talk to me later. I tapped you on the shoulder and gave you a kiss on the cheek.
Because I was in love.
When I was eighteen, I woke up early on a Sunday morning, hungover. I rolled a joint and I thought about you. The way your hair looked when you get out of the shower. the way your smile took its shape. I made you a mixtape. I put it all on there. Prince, Bilal, Sade. I can’t help it. I wished I could have told you myself. But at least I didn’t give you a greeting card. Or, the letter I wrote to go with the music. Or, my heart. I knew better. I tested the waters, I picked you up from school the next week and you had been crying. I took you home, made you some soup, gave you a blanket and watched Rush Hour with you. We slept like that, you left the next morning and I could never listen to the mix or watch the movie again.
Because I was in love.
When I was twenty-four, you trusted me. I e-mailed professors on your behalf, you talked to my mother about her day and, every once in a while, we would hotbox my car in our spot off campus and watch the sunset. These are the times I remember the most. I’m sure there were others, but these, these were intangible. I spent hours toiling over a law school entrance exam and you studied art history. But, weren’t we made for each other? What of all the memories? What of all the love letters? What of all the vacations? My heart broke that summer. I wondered what happened for years and I wondered if you would remember me and if you would give me a call. I wrote you letters but most are stained with tears.
Because I was in love.
When I was thirty-two, sounds of waves crashing etched themselves into our eardrums. We lived by the sea, happy, surreal and comfortable. But, had we not met when we did, would our lives had turned out different? Would we still have found each other? What experiences would have replaced the ones we had? I’m torn apart. The tides took you in, I came home late and I read your old college thesis on Poseidon. I marked it up with red ink, leaving enthusiastic comments everywhere, enthused at the thought of being a professor somewhere, living a quiet life, and wrote you a letter on the last page, drawing a heart beneath it all, giving you an A+.
Because I was in love.
And when I was seventy, when my heart was spent, when I spent evenings piecing together puzzles, when I cut the lights off at seven, when I bought fifty-cent cups of lemonade from the children across the street, when I imagined the doorbell ringing, when life laughed in my face, when my sunglasses protected me from the sun, when I forgot my mother’s maiden name, when melancholia taught me how to live alone, when thoughts of the afterlife clouded my judgement, when I slipped and fell in public, when I wept at all the wrong times, when nightmares followed me into my waking life, when telemarketers called my home, when birds chirped, when the vinyl in the attic collected dust, when I realized my fate, I burned those letters.
Because I was in love.
Mustafa Abubaker is a 20-year old student and writer living in Atlanta, Georgia.
this is beautiful.