Love
One
morning as he woke he knew he loved her. He’d loved her always, of course. As any
father might. Ever since he’d seen her dancing, a twelve-year-old orphan in a
home for abused children.
He’d accompanied her, proudly, ‘my daughter’, through puberty into adolescence. Suddenly, at eighteen, a woman. Helplessly, he felt the subtle changes in her. Saw the almost indiscernible sculpting in her face, the blooming of her body. Ached as she negotiated her way through the complex agonies of young love; watched with loving pride her naturalness with children, her beloved little dog, her friends doting on her. 'Crazy Little Katie', they called her.
He’d accompanied her, proudly, ‘my daughter’, through puberty into adolescence. Suddenly, at eighteen, a woman. Helplessly, he felt the subtle changes in her. Saw the almost indiscernible sculpting in her face, the blooming of her body. Ached as she negotiated her way through the complex agonies of young love; watched with loving pride her naturalness with children, her beloved little dog, her friends doting on her. 'Crazy Little Katie', they called her.
Then, suddenly,
he loved her. Utterly. Completely. Hopelessly. She, eighteen; he, already
seventy plus. Grotesque.
Grotesque.
Yes. But also inescapably true. He loved
her, this lovely child and woman, utterly, hopelessly, completely. He could never tell her. Of course. Instead,
he lived in a constant exquisite tenderness towards her, visiting now and again,
bringing her M&Ms, an occasional rose, the odd humorous occurrence. Thinking
of her always. At times …
****
It was
always a dangerous intersection. Several roads came together. Look right. Look
left. Here, look both ways. The hurtling bus was convenient. Afterwards people
said, “Poor old chap. Must’ve got
confused. Looked right when he should’ve looked left. His head came apart in
mid-air! Imagine.”
The bus
driver never worked again. Last seen, he was living under a bridge. Flailing
his arms, and quietly screaming.
