Love is her English name. Whenever she is within view, I worry less. She is special. Very special. She is always there my hand to hold. We haven’t known each other for too long – just a little over 3 years. But how fresh the love is betrays the fact that the foundation is solid, unshakable, immovable.
We live in the same city. One hour away from each other. We are both students of the Institution of higher learning.
Everyday, I would send her mails. Unique mails. The central theme of the mails is love. Reassuring love. Supporting love. Love that always stands by. I tell her everyday that she is my queen. I assure her that my eye is single and that it is fixed on none other but her. Such was the nature of the mails.
You most certainly would relate to the fact that although everyday should be a day of love, it might have different variations, most especially in times of war, commitment, confusion or uncertainty. In such times as these, the tone of the mail is slightly different. If we have misunderstandings, I would reassure her that I would always give a listening ear and that we will always patiently reason together in order to forge ahead. It was always useful.
And when she replies, oh what joy that fills my soul, for in hers lies a total outpouring of her deep seethed emotions which she tries to translate into words as beautifully as anyone can.
The thing is, I am moving out of the city for a while. She would have to stay without me, and me without her, for 3 months at least. I have to go lay some foundation.
As she escorts me to the airport, I tell her all the stories available to me, just for to keep her happy. But she knows my plot and thus acts the script until the Green Zone where, once I enter, the good byes will be for sure. And that was when the taps open up in full intensity.
I try to manage the situation, but it appears that with every effort I put in, there is increase in the awareness that I am actually leaving. Not for ever, but for a seemingly long time.
I ask her, ‘what would you have me do for you?’ I ask that question not really expecting a reply. Or if I did expect one, I expect her to outline several things she would like me get her, or how that I should not forget to call her or send her mails like I heretofore did.
‘Remember me!’ She utters whilst trying to fight back tears.
That shatters my whole person and persona and I now understood the full impact of our short separation.
Two words, ‘Remember me!’
If I remember her, I would write. If I remember her, calling wouldn’t be a thing of duty. If I remember her, I would do my best to ensure that her happiness is guaranteed, albeit from a distance.
The big question that lies before me is thus, ‘what will make me forget her?’