Scars

By the dim light of an overhead lamp I can just make out the words of that classic tale that graces the book's yellowed pages. Though the usual month of its telling has long since passed, an old copy of Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" has become my nightly companion. My old friend Bob Cratchit is there, tending to his sickly son Tiny Tim while his wife prepares the Christmas dinner. Jacob Marley has made his appearance as well, dragging and rattling heavy chains that announce his presence as surely as the jingling coins within his purse must have done in former days. And of course Scrooge, the old miser whose personal failings are writ large against the shortcomings of each reader, to varying degrees and maladies of course. Some see themselves in his avarice, still others in his indifference, whereas a few (the most tragic I believe) have followed his example of neglecting matters of the heart, ignoring a fiery love that was slow to ignite but quick to extinguish.

Another page I turn to our place in the story where the Ghost of Christmas Past has taken Scrooge to look upon his youthful love Belle. His fiancé of many years, Belle is abandoning Scrooge to his base desires, the pursuit of wealth and security, that he might find happiness in a life apart from her. She spoke thus:

"I release you. With a full heart, for the love of him you once were....May you be happy in the life you have chosen!"

She left him, and they parted.


Heartbroken, the elder Scrooge watches his true love depart and can only beg the Ghost of Christmas Past to show mercy upon his tortured soul.


'Spirit!' said Scrooge, 'show me no more! Conduct me home. Why do you delight to torture me?'

'One shadow more!' exclaimed the Ghost.

 
I set the book down, contemplating Scrooge's predicament when I hear a low voice from across my bedroom.


"One shadow more Bobby," it says with monotone inflection that raises the hairs on my neck.


I look up to see a hooded figure whose head nearly touches the ceiling, its black robes draped loose and free to conceal a face enveloped by shadow. Yet the shadow is not black, but instead emits a peculiar glow that bathes the unexpected visitor in a translucent haze so that the dents and scratches of the wall it stands against are perfectly visible. 


"What spirit are you?" I inquire with trembling voice, my curiosity not yet ready to succumb to fear.

"Come, I have much to show you," the spirit replies, and with outstretched arm it took hold of my hand as we passed through time and space to arrive in a wooded park, a park unknown to me, yet familiar all the same.

"Where are we spirit?" I ask. The spirit points its long arm to a sign that reads "Piedmont Park", Atlanta's largest park and one that I have visited many times. Countless afternoons and evenings have I spent walking its wooded trails and scarcely a single tree or blade of grass remains unknown to me. Yet everything is different. The walking trails twist and wind in new directions I do not remember while the trees seem larger, as if fifty years of growth has taken place in a single night. Young saplings that only days before had struggled to find sunlight beneath the canopy now appear full grown, with roots that push through the earth and split concrete walkways that I have never seen nor trodden.

"Nothing seems as it should," I say to the spirit. "I do not recognize the place I now stand. Why have you brought me here?"

Before the spirit replies I hear footsteps behind me. Two pairs of steps tread softly down a winding trail that is illuminated only by the moonlight above. As the strangers approach, I see the faces of each, a man and a woman whose skin hangs loose with age. Deep wrinkles line their faces, yet both are smiling as their hands intertwine together so tightly that even the moonlight reflecting off their wedding rings can barely escape. They walk past me, ignoring my presence as they seem concerned only with each other whilst making their way to a magnolia tree far in the distance that stands tall and strong, a hundred feet of night sky carved out for itself.

Upon reaching the tree, the old man took hold of his wife's hand and placed it on the tree's thick trunk, letting it linger for a moment before whispering words to her that I could not distinguish, yet somehow already knew. She looked again at the tree trunk, letting her fingers trace its peculiar surface, and began to weep. With unbridled passion she wrapped her arms around the man's neck like a young girl whose love had just blossomed at the sight of her first beloved. In that moment they were no longer old and grey, but instead a pair of young lovers whose journey together was as uncertain as it is magical. They love each other. They are in love with each other, and beneath the moon's silent gaze they skipped away together quick as rabbits.

I watched them. I watched them disappear together somewhere deep into the woods, neither hands nor longing stares ever separating. Only when I was certain that their departure was assured did I wander towards the magnolia tree that had stirred such emotions. Its imposing branches stretched far and wide, yet seemed comforting to me as if welcoming an old friend. With only the dim moonlight to guide my steps, the tree remained an unbroken shadow until finally I strayed close enough to see markings upon its trunk, the markings that had stirred such elation and love within the old woman's heart. For in the trunk of that old magnolia were carved two names, deep into the wood, that were separated only by a single heart. The carving was old, some fifty years perhaps, and had become a deep scar from which the old magnolia never recovered, or perhaps proudly bore. Two names formed the scar. Two names immortalized forever in this ancient wood...a carving that would forever proclaim their love.

As I drew nearer, the heart binding both names together became plainly visible, but only when my hand touched the carving itself could I distinguish the names of those two lovers. My fingers traced the familiar letters and I froze.

"Spirit," I said, quickly turning around. "These names...these names are..." But the spirit was gone, leaving me alone to stare only at a deeply carved name, the most beautiful of names, that now scarred both this tree and my heart.

My eyes flutter open as the first rays of morning sunlight reach through the window. On my lap rests "A Christmas Carol", still opened to the pages I last remember reading the night before. The pages rustle slightly from the twirling fan blades above and I begin to wonder if Scrooge's ghosts were really only a dream after all. 

An hour later I am walking through Piedmont Park, a casual morning stroll that starts so many of my days. The paths are familiar again, not at all like the night before, and as I round a paved trail I see a small tree, not much larger than a sapling, planted exactly where I remember the towering magnolia standing. Its roots are shallow, its branches modest, but its diminutive size cannot mask its true identity. I look for the lovers' names that the old man had carved into the trunk all those years ago, but the wood is bare and plain, as if waiting for the old man's hand to confess his love upon the blank canvas. I smile, reach into my pocket, and withdraw a small pocketknife that seems just right for the job at hand. Its blade saws deep into the wood, first writing your name, then mine, before binding the two together with a heart between them. I close my knife and wipe the sawdust away, admiring the handiwork that will last for some fifty years. The carving is fresh now, but I know that in time it will scar over, becoming fainter as the tree grows until it will be visible only to the man who put it there and the woman he has carved it for.

When you ask, I will show you these scars, the emotional scars that I now carry. They will never heal. I don't want them to. I want them to remain open wounds to remind me of what I have lost so that if you should ever offer me your love again I will never take it for granted. These wounds remind me to be the man you always wanted me to be, the man I have become, so that when at last our hearts are bound together I will never lose you again.

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Ornela,

Though we are a thousand miles apart, in this moment I am with you. When you read my words, I am sitting beside you, holding your hand as I tell you that I love you.  

Why are you here Ornela? Why are you still reading my stories? I want you to really think about what is drawing you back to my journal when you know that all of my stories are now love letters to you. Though we are not together, you are letting me tell you that I love you every time you read my words...and I know that hearing these words makes you happy. If you were happy with this other man you wouldn't be here right now, letting me say these things to you, knowing that I am going to keep telling you that I love you. You feel something when reading my words that he doesn't give you, something you felt only when we were together: Love, and when you read my journal now it can only be for one reason...you are still in love with me and you want to know that I love you too. If these are the words you want to hear then let me say them to you in person. Let me take you to the bridge overlooking the lake at Boston Common Park, just as I did all those months ago, and I will look into your eyes and tell you that I am in love with you. We can start our lives together at that moment, the moment when our hearts are finally bound together.

Ask me Ornela...ask me to see you. If you look into my eyes and feel nothing then we will know that it was never meant to be, but if our hearts are inflamed with the same passion that we felt for one another when last our gazes met then we will know that we are only for each other. It is the only way to know for sure. It is the only way to live our lives without the regret of spending a lifetime with the wrong person. One chance to look into your eyes again...that is all I am asking for.

A day, a month, a year...no matter how long I must wait for you, I know that one day we will be together again. I do not have faith in anything except you...except us. 

I think about you every day. I miss you more than anything.

We are two people who are in love with each other, and always have been...and always will be. That is the real reason you are here right now Ornela. Love is bringing us back together. If you are reading these words, please call me.