Where Love Waits Beyond the Veil

Love happens to us without our permission. It is not convenient, and sometimes, it is tragic

I have always been very clear about love: It is a discipline. You decide to love someone, and that is that. You can decide otherwise if the conditions no longer serve you. But lately, I think love is more than that. I do not know if it is because I am growing older and, therefore, mellowing a bit. Age allows you to look back, reflect and sometimes even reconsider.

Love happens to us without our permission. It is not convenient, and sometimes, it is tragic. If you do not succumb to love, it becomes a cruel master, haunting you with ghosts of woulda, shoulda, coulda.

Love is eternal. You will love them forever. You may run away, but love has long arms that will pull you back and, in some cases, drive you to your grave, because you cannot live without the person. Turns out someone’s love can keep you alive, and if you take it for granted when they are here, you will pay when they are gone.

Arthur and Marie’s love was a sweet love. Young love that felt like forever love. It was a forever love. These young kids thought their love would never die. And it didn't.

The bravado of youth, the confidence fueled by money and the arrogance of brilliance drove Arthur away. The women applauded and chased, the world was appealing, all of it his stage.

Marie held on to their love. She waited; she was patient. Love eventually turned poisonous. It made her body weak, she was susceptible to opportunistic diseases. Her love for him was killing her.

She continued to love her sweetheart until the pain made her mad, her memory lost, save for her love for Arthur. She never forgot him. Love would not allow her to.

She died without bitterness, her love for him too great to turn venomous.

Life without Marie was unkind. Seems love without the vessel is an unfeeling spirit. Vengeful, wanting to take what belongs to it. Love haunted him. So for six years, Arthur wandered this earth, lost. Nothing made sense anymore. The drinks did not hit the same, the women did not excite, and the brilliance turned to insanity. The voice of her love was so loud, but only he could hear it.

Finally, she called him. Love sent him to the village to prepare for their reunion.

I imagine she sat patiently waiting for him, humming a familiar tune. Maybe one they had once danced to. He walked toward her, deaf to the pleas of the living. “Take your medicine, see the doctor, look after yourself, eat!” He would hear none of it.

I think he had already seen her, nothing was heavy enough to keep him here. “Marie has told me to come and die,” he said. Not in a way that would make you panic, but he said it in a way that made you realize that that was the way it would be. Because it was probably written, by love.

Unknown to many, he had written and typed his own eulogy. He placed it on his desk for us to find. His suit was picked and set apart, a Pierre Cardin, beige in colour, a colour not normally worn on such journeys, but I guess black is not a suitable colour for a love reunion. His fridge was stocked for guests who saw him off.

He had to go. Love beckoned. Love is impatient. Love will not be denied.

Two weeks later, he was gone.

He went with a smile on his face. She must have been the last thing he saw.

Love had won. As if there was any other way.

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