Words of Love

The filtered sunlight bathed the room in a warm glow befitting a lazy Sunday afternoon. A brown haired girl about eight snuggled a small ball of white fur from her perch on the black lava rock hearth. Nearby, a tall lanky man with a full dark beard stretched across the dark brown shag carpet, resting his head on the bottom of the olive green couch. A curly brown haired woman sat in the Naugahyde rocking chair in the corner, a book splayed open in her hands, as she filled the air with a tapestry woven of words written decades before.

There in the midst of this idyllic family memory, my physical form took the shape of a pigtailed curly blonde six year old. I nestled my head on the man's stomach and spread a brown and blue afghan over me. The voice of the woman wiggled and wormed into my ears taking root in the depths of my mind.

My consciousness, however, had fled across space and time, to a distant world filled with dragons, wizards, and furry-footed unexpected heroes. There I found comfort in a hole under a mountain and excitement at the impending adventure about to sweep us away. I waited with baited breath as a burglar saved his new friends from being roasted and tricked a desperate creature out of his most precious possession. Mesmerized, I drank in every word with eagerness.

Too young to understand what had started that day, it would be many years before I could pinpoint that moment as the beginning of my first great love affair.

As most great love affairs, it began with an insatiable lust. I consumed whatever I could get my hands on wherever I could find a space to be alone: in the corner of the library, the back of my closet, under the covers, behind a tree on the playground. Sometimes I would gulp down an entire novel in one afternoon. But no matter how much I devoured there was no quelling my appetite. I needed more.

Then one morning my fingers began to itch. The burning sensation drove me mad until I cracked open the supple cover of a brand new notebook, sharpened a pencil to a perfectly tapered point, and then I poured out everything I had ever consumed atop the blank page. It kept coming and coming, taking form as something new yet recognizable as being born from the words of hundreds of classic tales. From that day forward, our love affair became a partnership. I no longer just took, I shared myself. Together we created something incredible and satisfying.

Over the years, we had many adventures together and my love grew deeper and matured. I found other loves but my first love remained faithful, always there for me when I needed it, a best friend I could turn to when life became challenging. Though I often neglected our relationship as I fostered new passions, my first love was never jealous, often waiting to help me celebrate my newer loves. Whenever I came back to it, I found its embrace as intoxicating as the first time, my addiction would reignite, and I would lose myself all over again. My other loves weren't always as patient and understanding. Sometimes they wailed until I would be forced to abandon my first love for a time.

But the draw to return to my first love remained insatiable; I could never deny it for long. Here I found my true self hidden in the depths, raw and unencumbered. Here I found adventure, intrigue, accomplishment, magic, beauty, and, most importantly, escape. I drank in the words of masters and sipped the poetry of unknowns. I took what they offered and spun it into something different and unique, with a twinge of my own whimsy woven through its structure. My love deepened and defined me.

I still lose myself in the indulgence of my passions, but now when I find myself swept away only part of me flitters about fairytale worlds created in my own imagination. In those moments, another part, the truest part of myself, goes back to a sunlit living room on a lazy Sunday afternoon where it all began. I remember more than the words that were read from the pages and understand that my love was about far more than just a fairytale. That perfect moment, nestled safely next to my father, listening to the comforting sound of my mother’s voice, sharing an adventure with my sister, that moment was the true source of the magic. That is what I have been trying to recreate, but not for myself. As I pour forth my soul I see a hundred other living rooms, bathed in a soft afternoon sun, where mothers and fathers share with their own children the adventures I created, my words igniting a passion in the heart of a child and fueling their own insatiable love affair.