columbinus

1

\columbinus\2

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The Latin word "columbinus," meaning dove-like, refers to the resemblance of the five-arched nectar spurs on a columbine flower to doves sitting in a circle around a dish.--from \Nature Wise\ by Roy Lukes4

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\when the doves take us,6

we'll spend all day in the trees7

when the doves take us,8

I'll be yours forever9

when we become doves,10

I'll call you by name11

I'll sing you by name12

I'll sing about you forever13

we'll become doves,14

we will and we will15

we'll be doves together16

and we'll be taken away17

I'll be yours forever18

in the trees19

\20

/               /              /21

We spent many of our first days talking walks around town.  We found new places to eat lunch and bought a few things in stores we'd never noticed before.  I secretly bought something for her, when she was in the front of a store and I was guarded by rows of clothing in the back.  It was a small, red glass, translucent and pretty.  It made me think of her.  I didn't use it, just saved it, waiting until I knew it would be right to give it to her.  I thought about it holding club soda, and milk, and lemonade.  I thought about her drinking from it.  I thought about how she would fit inside it, and turn into water.  It would look like blood since the cup was red.  I knew I would give it to her when I thought she loved me.  I already knew I loved her but couldn't find words to say it.22

Her favorite thing was to play around to music in our house.  She liked board games, imaginary games, cooking games, book games.  She invented games all the time.  She'd say, "You start on this end of the couch, and you can only step on the black stripes.  I can step on the dark brown stripes.  Whoever gets to the other side first wins."  And I would stand on the tiny black stripes, concentrating on keeping my toes from touching her brown ones, until we ended up in the middle, crashing heads, and the next thing I knew, we were kissing.  I was never disappointed with her games; they usually ended up like this.  They weren't meant to be erotic; in fact, they were meant to be extremely innocent, but when we got going, we didn't stop.  You might think, "Boy, you guys must have been in love."  But neither of us said it.  We were both afraid, I think.  I thought about it all the time.  I stared at her asleep, or swaying to music, or watching a movie, and I'd think, "I'm so in love, so in love.  I love her.  I'm in love with her."  And I would say her name to myself, thinking about how special I was, and how no one else could say her name the way I could, and I could think of all the times we'd spent together, and have it mean everything to me.  No one else could do that.  I was so in love.23

/               /              /24

One day, she decided to change her hair.  She asked me if she should cut it.25

"Not drastically," I said.  "I like your hair long."26

She had beautiful hair.  I told her often how much I liked it.  It was curly and wild and fell about to her middle back.  I wondered if she'd dye it, too.  I didn't see the need for a change, but if she wanted to change, that was fine with me.  I was in love with her, and so I would let her do whatever she wanted.27

She came back with hair sitting on her shoulder blades.  It was now slightly crimped, not the unruly hair I was used to.  And it was red, red as the cup I'd bought for her.  She looked so different, but I glanced at her eyes and realized how she'd stayed the same from the change.  I got the feeling she still looked the same, even her hair, even though it looked different--it looked the same.  I can't explain it in words.28

She tentatively asked, "Do you like it?"29

"My God," I said, "you look so beautiful."30

She grinned and hugged me and kissed my neck.  I felt her new hair.  It smelled like dye, and it was smooth.31

She whispered to me, "I love you," and I said, "Really?" and when she nodded, I got so happy, I was sure I was going to cry.  I realized then that we both were.  "I'm in love with you," I told her, and led her to our room where I'd hidden the cup far back in one of my desk drawers.  When I pulled it out, she sighed, and said, "I wanted that cup.  How did you know?  I went back once, to get it, but it was already gone."  She sighed.  "I don't know why I wanted it so much..."32

"I didn't know why I had to get it so badly," I said, and handed it to her.  "Maybe... don't laugh... maybe it's because we love each other that much."33

She smiled, and her dimples came out, and I traced them with my hand and kissed them and kissed her lips, and we leaned against each other.  "You know," she said, "let's plant flowers in it.  Tiny, beautiful flowers.  White and pink.  Like our love.  This cup is our love.  Our love is red, it's real, and we need it badly.  Let's keep it in a window.  Let's look at it all the time."34

And I agreed with her.35

/               /              /36

We were silly, and that's why I think she started to stay guarded.  If people looked at us oddly in stores, she'd try to quiet down.  It didn't ever bother me.  I felt like being silly; I liked being that way.  It was part of who I was.  We would be having so much fun and--bam, her face would slack and her jaw would tighten as she watched people watching us.  I would straighten up, trying not to grin, but then I wouldn't be able to grin anymore.  It made me feel too self-concious, and I got nervous whenever she got serious like that.  She was afraid of people judging us.  I don't know what brought it out in her, but she'd tell me quietly, "Let's just leave, I don't like it here."  And I understood what she meant, but I didn't understand how she felt.  She could get awfully complicated and it made me feel simple.37

I started to feel like I couldn't measure up to her.  I spent a lot of time in front of the mirror examining myself when she wasn't around.  What was I, what did I look like to other people?  Did I look silly?  Or did I look like there was something wrong with me?  I didn't like myself very much anymore.  She acted like she didn't--couldn't--love me when there were others around.  Did that mean she didn't love me at all?38

I thought there must be something wrong with me.  I didn't really know how anyone like her could fall in love with me anyway.39

/               /              /40

Our cup had now mothered three seperate plants.  Once they'd gotten too big for the cup, we took them out and put them in large clay pots.  We kept them all on the same windowsill.  The cup was on its fourth plant.  It was beautiful, a mixture of wildflowers:  golden eardrops, catclaw acacia, and muilla.  The buds were tiny, but they were still almost too big for the cup.  I told her that we needed to buy another pot.  She nodded and bit her lip.  "Why don't you go out to get it?  I have some work to do."  She knew I'd do it, and I did without complaining, but I felt like this was a noticeable part of her trying to separate herself from me.  We'd bought the other three pots together--after a lot of search and debate.  It had meant something, I thought.  Now--she didn't care.41

I felt as though she was starting to place a pillow on my face without me noticing.  I didn't care if I felt selfish.  I didn't care if I acted like a seven-year-old.  I wanted her to feel the way I felt, but I didn't know how to make her.42

/               /              /43

We were all right for a while.  She played romantic and baked me dinner, cooking elaborate desserts she found on the internet.  I bought weird old movies and we critiqued them quite harshly.  We laughed a lot.  I liked staying in; she was mine when we were alone.  I waited at home for her all day--she worked as a teacher at an elementary school and I was working on a novel.  I was glad she had summers off.  It was spring and we felt it coming on.  When summer hit, we'd both be at home all day.  She left in the mornings before I got up and she'd leave me things:  little notes, some special chocolates, some leaves she'd found outside that I would think were pretty, anything she could think of.  I decided she did love me, that I was lovable.  I was wrong to have gotten mad.  As I acknowledged this, I noticed that we became closer, and I felt almost overwhelmed by the happiness of being so close to her.44

I knew I didn't need anything but her.45

I tenderly watched over the cup's newest flowers.  Now the four big pots sat in a row beside the tiny cup, and all the flowers were doing nicely.  I'd planted columbine in the cup this time.  It was beginning to push through the soil.  The first day I noticed it, I don't know why, but I got so excited that I couldn't write all day.  I couldn't watch T.V., either.  I put on some music and tried to make myself something to eat, but I ended up eating a bit of everything in the pantry.  I danced around the house as I sang.  I jumped on some of the furniture.  I felt like I was seven years old again.46

When she came home, I hurried her over to show her.  "Look!  It's growing!"  I was smiling so much and kept dancing.  She just laughed and said, "You're so crazy," but joined me in dancing.47

That night was amazing...48

/               /              /49

I guess the turning point was when we were burglarized.50

We came home from eating out, a treat I was giving her.  I'd just sold my novel.  We were both thrilled.  We'd had a nice evening, but we were tired.  We didn't notice anything wrong at first--not until we turned on the lights.  Things had been pulled off shelves, our furniture was turned over, and there was what I hoped was water spilt all over in the hall.  She started crying.  I was worried there was still someone in the house.  But she just sat on her knees in front of our pots.  They were broken, there was dirt everywhere, and I thought the red cup was missing.  She just kept crying, and leaned her head against the wall.51

"Honey," I said, "please, get up, we need to leave.  I'll call the police on the cell phone.  Just, please--"52

I went over to help her up, but she lay limply.  We were about the same size so I couldn't hold her weight.  I sat next to her, and she leaned up, trying to breathe.53

"Look at us.  Look," she said.  "Maybe we were... maybe this is what we deserve."54

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.  Yes, I knew she'd always felt self-concious when people looked at us.  I didn't know that she thought we were wrong.  That she thought she shouldn't love me.55

That she didn't want to love me.56

I couldn't look at her.  I closed my eyes.  "Get up now," I ordered.  "This is still our house, and we still need to call the police.  Let's go.  We can talk later."57

I was sure I was going to die.  What I really wanted was our red cup back.  If I could display it proudly, maybe it would fix everything.  If I could use it to shield the world from us, break it and wield the sharp edges at anyone who came near us, then maybe she would love me like I wanted her to.58

Maybe.59

/               /              /60

Most of our things were still there, it turned out, but the police never caught whoever broke in.  They took some cds, some money that I'd left on the dresser, and some jewelry.  That was it.  We weren't very worried anymore.  We cleaned up the dirt on the carpet and the water in the hall.  We put the furniture back like it was.  We didn't like to talk about it.  We tried forgetting it.  But I stared at where the cup used to sit and I would get tight in the chest and I was sure I was going to implode.61

She found the red cup under a chair.  It wasn't broken.  It was fine.  The columbine was still inside.  But still, she said, "Do you think we should put this up?  Where it won't get broken?"  And I knew what she meant, even though I didn't understand her, and I said yes.62

I was still not able to say no to her.63

We planted the columbine outside.  She put the cup in her dresser drawer.  She wrapped it in a cloth and laid it in the very back.  I watched her do it, my arms crossed, worried.  She was putting everything away.  We didn't touch like we used to.  I was afraid she'd pull away from me, and she didn't seem to want to come near me.  "Did we deserve this?" echoed in my head.  I was letting it haunt me because I wanted something to blame.  Then I could say, "It's because of everyone else that this happened, not us."  Because of what everyone else thought, believed, bought into--not because of me.64

But increasingly I saw it as me.  She couldn't eat what I cooked.  We hardly watched movies anymore.  We never went out together.  I'd taken up board in the room on the first floor; she still lived on the second floor.  We talked icily.  It was driving me crazy and killing me.65

One day, I couldn't take it anymore.66

"Why can't you love me?  I don't understand.  We were fine until you started paying attention to everyone else."67

She just stared at me, like she couldn't believe what she was hearing.  How could she not have seen it coming?  "It's not that I can't love you.  I mean... I don't know what it is.  I can't handle it."68

"You can't handle it?  You can't handle loving me?  Then why are you still here?  Why don't you leave?  I'm..."  I thought I would cry.  "You're breaking my heart and I can't take it."69

She sighed.  "Do you want me to leave?"70

"I want you to love me."71

"I already said--"72

"I know what you said."  I was starting to get angry, but there were still tears in my eyes.  "But you loved me.  You can still love me.  I don't get it.  Stop being selfish.  If you don't love me, fine, I can live with that.  But you do love me, and I know it, but you're being selfish and trying to keep me from seeing it.  Who cares if I see it?  Who cares if everyone sees it?  Stop being a little kid."73

That's when she started crying.  I didn't feel sorry.  It needed to be said.74

She told me, speaking as calmly as she could, "You don't understand.  Love isn't easy for me.  I didn't think we needed to talk about this.  I thought we were all right."75

"How could we not talk about it?"  Now I was the one who couldn't believe what I was hearing.  "You were everything to me, then you took it away.  And you thought we didn't need to talk about it?  You really are a little kid."76

She nodded.  "Maybe.  But don't do this to me.  Please.  I need time, space.  I can't deal with this."77

We both got quiet.  We stopped crying.  We sat that way for a long time.78

I finally said, "I guess you should leave, then.  Because I can't handle you treating me like you can't stand me.  It'd be different if you hadn't loved me in the first place.  But you're stopping it on purpose.  You can't handle love--I can't handle hate."79

"I don't hate you--"80

"If you had any compassion for me at all, if you didn't hate me, you'd leave.  You wouldn't hang around and make it worse."81

I left her like that.  She stayed in her room the rest of the night.  I started to feel bad, but I didn't know what else to do.  Everything I'd said, I'd meant.  I didn't want her around if she didn't want me.  Ultimatums are terrifying, I realized, and that was the only thing I felt bad about.  I still didn't care enough to apologize.  I really didn't want her around anymore.  I loved her enough to make her leave.  Did that mean anything?  Didn't she see that what I was doing was hard?  But I would do it if it meant helping her.  She needed the space--she could have it.82

I needed her--I couldn't have her.83

She was the one who was getting what she wanted.84

She left a week later.85

/               /              /86

It was a year since I'd seen her.  I can't remember why she came back--someone, or something she'd forgotten.  Who knew.  I was surprised to see her on my porch, knocking.  It was ironic.  She'd lived in the house for years, and now she couldn't come inside unless I said.  I felt pathetic, but it gave me perverse satisfaction that she had to ask permission to come inside.87

I let her in.  She sat on the couch.  It was new.  I'd let her take the old one.  I didn't want to remember it.  "I like this," she said, rubbing her hand across the fabric.  "It's pretty.  It's very you."88

I was still standing up, near the hallway.  "Mmmhmm," I said.  "What are you doing here?"89

She bit her lip.  "I'm... I wanted to apologize.  For everything."90

"Why?"91

She looked at me seriously.  "It was my fault.  Okay?  I know it was.  And I'm sorry.  I feel terrible.  Not--for me.  For you.  I hurt you.  Didn't I?  I broke your heart."92

"I'm trying to forget it."  I crossed the room and sat in a chair, away from her.  "It doesn't matter anymore."93

"No.  It matters.  I just couldn't stand--"94

"Look," I cut in.  "I'm trying to move on.  I obviously meant nothing to you, so why are you back here?  Are you trying to hurt me worse?  Why would you do that?  I don't want to deal with this right now."95

She nodded.  "Oh.  Sure.  I'm sorry.  I didn't... um, I'll leave.  I really am sorry."  She turned away and got up.  I followed her to the door.96

She turned back to me as she started to go out the door.  She was crying.  It made me feel sick at heart.  "Please," she said quietly, shakily, "believe me that I'm sorry.  I am.  I--"  She shook her head and left.97

/               /              /98

There was an envelope on the end table next to the couch with my name written on it.  I was afraid to touch it at first.  Maybe it wasn't real, and it would vanish, merely a mirage.  But I finally gripped it in my hand.  I wanted to tear it up.  Wasn't it what she deserved?  But I couldn't.  I kept thinking about her, and about us.  I couldn't say no to her.  So I decided I would be strong.  I opened it.99

/               /              /100

\"ordinary wind is winding(cold face blush101

wind is winding here there tomorrow)(102

graceful dove wind103

theatrical scar wind104

thunderclapclapclap(clapclapstrike)105

struckwinding wind"106

--this was by E. E. Cummings; I know you loved him107

My dove, I don't know how to start this.  It's been so long since we've even talked.  I worry that you've changed and you don't match my memories.  But I still see you as beautiful; nothing could take your beauty.  You were the wind, cutting the world.  You were the doves.  You were everything.108

I am sorry.  I want you to know that I finally got what I deserved:  for this past year, I've felt as though I was dying.  I don't think I have to explain this feeling to you.  I could read it on your face when you were being so careful around me.  I was a brat, I was stupid.  I can't believe I put you through that.  But you were still so kind about it... until I pushed you over the edge.  I don't blame you at all.  I wouldn't have been able to put up with it for as long as you did.  I feel like a very low, terrible creature right now.  I have for a long time.  Ever since I started to hurt you.  But I didn't know what to do.  I didn't.109

Please stop reading this now if you can.  I'm afraid it will hurt you more.  I'm going to start being honest with you and it may be selfish to finally say these things.  But I need to, even if you don't read it...110

I have been in love with you ever since we've met.  I have never stopped loving you.  I love you, I love you, I love you.  You've been everything, my dove.  I remember when I first spoke to you.  Your hair was longer then, past your shoulders, your eyes were so green, you had the most amazing hands.  I kept thinking, "I would be so lucky to have her pay attention to me."  And when you started talking to me, you made me feel like I was perfect.  Do you know how often I went back to the park, to the spot we met, and picked flowers and smiled?  I love that spot.  I can still remember it perfectly, the path, the pond to the left, those two trees sitting behind the bench.  It's my favorite place.  Almost.111

My favorite place was always you.  It didn't matter where you were--that's where I wanted to be.  For a year, it's been very bland.  There is no favorite place I can go to.  I went back to the park once.  It was painful.  I knew it would be, but I thought I should put myself through that, to show myself what it was like for you.  I couldn't go back again.112

This isn't fair to you.  It wasn't fair a year ago when I hurt you.  But don't ask me why I couldn't love you like I wanted to.  I don't know exactly, but I was afraid of everything, I think.  Of people.  That they would tear us apart.  But they didn't need to, did they?  I did it myself.113

I'm sorry.  I can't tell you that enough.  I'm sorry, I'm sorry.  I still feel sick when I think about it--I think about it all the time.  I don't feel right, ever.  Nothing has meant anything.114

I still love you, and I wanted you to know.  But don't worry.  This is the last selfish thing I'll do.  I'll stay out of your life from now on.  But if you ever need anything--I mean it, anything--I'll do it.  I would do anything for you.  I'm sorry.  I regret everything--except loving you.  My dove.115

\116

/               /              /117

I ended up at the park, with some half-crazy wish that she'd be there.  I sat on our bench, closed my eyes, and tried to remember.  I couldn't.  I was afraid to.  Afraid of what she'd do when I went back.  So I opened my eyes.  I saw everything around me; things hadn't changed.  It looked the same.  The sun fell the same way, the trees hit on the left half of the bench still, and things were quietly whispering.  I couldn't stop myself from crying.  I laid down on the bench and curled up.118

I didn't think I'd ever get over her, and that scared me even more.  I wondered if I'd feel like I did forever, if I'd feel suffocated and ill.  I hated her for this.  I hated myself even more for letting her in.119

I swore I'd never love anyone else again.120

/               /              /121

I did fall in love again, but this time it was with a white and orange spotted kitten whom I named Bethesda.  I call her Beth.  She is my sweetheart; she's a spoiled, pampered little thing, but what can I say, I'm in love.  I can never say no to her.122

The columbine we planted outside has gone wild.  It's huge.  I don't know if they're supposed to get this big.  It stands at least as tall as I do, and I can stretch my arms out and it won't span the width of the plant.  The white flowers are as big as my entire hand.  And to think it all started out in a tiny red cup.123

I've been writing nonstop for the past few months.  I suddenly got some inspiration.  Once I found it, I never let it go.  Beth gets mad when I don't pay attention to her, so she finds a way to snuggle against me when I'm writing--or else she meows and meows until I stop and give her a kitty treat.  My latest story is the one I'm not most proud of, and it's not necessarily the best written.  But it's my favorite.  Because it's the truth, and it's love.  Now all I have to do is send it out...124

So you'll get this a few days after I send it.  I didn't really mean all the terrible things I said about you.  I hope you realize that I've been in love with you this whole time.  And just like you couldn't explain things a while back, I can't explain why I never called you to tell you.  But I wrote this for you.  No one else will read it.  Because no one else needs to see my love for you.  It's only for you.  Nothing else matters.  So maybe, after you read it, and after you forgive me--and you forgive yourself--maybe you'll call me.  Will you call me?  I hope you'll call me.  And I'll apologize in person if you want.  And I'll kiss you, if you want that, too.  And if, maybe, you still want it, I'll love you.  I'll love you forever.  My dove.  Where no one can see us.  In the trees.125