Page 81 of Unspoken Words
So come here and see the truth
And you’ll know that it’s all for you.
Staring at the lines ‘only if there’s time’ and ‘only if it’s right’, my heart ached all over again, the helplessness in his words just as painful as the first time I’d read them. I could never be his ever after because there wasn’t time, and because it certainly wasn’t right.
“Is that a poem?” The lady next to me nodded toward my book as if reading what was written between the lines wasn’t in the slightest bit an invasion of my privacy.
“No, it’s not,” I said politely, folding up the note away from prying eyes. “They’re song lyrics.”
She swished her hand. “Same thing. Songs are poems and poems are songs.”
I wanted to tell her she was wrong, that although both rely on potent language and stem from engaging their audience emotionally, that one was designed to connect with a reader, and the other to connect with a listener. Both wereverydifferent.
I was about to enlighten her on the mistake often made between the two when she started reciting ‘How Do I Love Thee?’ by Elizabeth Browning.So help me God if I disengage the emergency exit door mid-flight.
“Romance is beautiful,” she cooed. “It’s light and hope in a world full of hate.”
Her wrinkled eyes twinkled with what I thought to be nostalgia, so I forced a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes, and I bit my tongue from telling her that romance was an umbrella, that it created a false sense of security because, when the miserable raging storm of life came out of nowhere and hit us, our umbrellas buckled. They only ever kept us dry from a mere sprinkling of rain.
Since moving to Darwin, I’d let true love and romance take a back seat while resignation drove me forward, and as I watched both notions swirl in her eyes and light up her weathered face, I, too, missed them, deeply. I missed how they made us feel both lighter than a feather and heavily rooted to the ground, which was why—for the remaining two hours of my flight—I didn’t think it would hurt to once again allow myself to believe that love and romance could weather the storm.
*
My mother’sexcited screech piercedmy ears as I opened the door and stepped out of the taxi.
“Oh my goodness! What have you done to your hair?” She pulled me to her then held me at arm’s length, her fingers twisting my blonde strands.
“It’s called peroxide, Mum.”
“But why?”
“Because the Darwin sun was lightening it anyway. Plus, Byron thought a change might be good for me.”
She screwed up her nose.
“Don’t start,” I warned.
Mum’s hands slowly rose in surrender. “I’m not.”
“Good.” I eyed her with an approving smile and hugged her again. “I’ve missed you so much.”Toomuch.
“Elliephant!”
I glanced over her shoulder and squealed at my brother. “CHRIS! What are you doing here? I thought you were playing football in Perth this week.”
His athletic frame, rich with muscles—even richer than the last time I’d seen him—was supported by one lone, wooden crutch as he hobbled down the steps toward me.
My hand shot to my mouth. “What did you do?”
“Osteitis Pubis.”
I bit my lip but couldn’t stop from smiling.
“Go on, laugh. Everyone else has.”
“We have not, Christopher,” Mum piped in.
He raised his eyebrow.
