The L word.
It was a late spring evening. I was playing in a football match in one of New York’s most stunning locations. It was an artificial turf field, looped around by a track on the east side by the river. An area, that at the time of this writing, may no longer exist for much longer due to proposed future renovations. The air was crisp and each breath felt as refreshing as the first sip of an ice-cold carbonated beverage. The sky was cotton-candy pink with shades of purple and blue intertwined with the new york city skyline. The match itself was quite dull but the group I play with is great. I don’t know how long they have been playing together but from the stories I hear, it seems like some of these folks have been getting together to play on a weekly basis for decades and that type of connection that stands the test of time in itself should’ve easily been the most captivating element I remember from that scene. However, in retrospect, what catches my eye was a much more mundane moment that with further inspection, becomes somewhat closer to the divine. A teenage boy joined as we needed more numbers to fill the pitch and as he trotted on he took a glance over his shoulder at his younger brother and then proceeded to laugh off some joke his sibling had just told him.
That moment still makes me choke up a bit. Its simple beauty reminded me of all the times I had given the same look over my shoulder to my brother on countless occasions. Without a doubt, the same look my parents had given me and theirs to them. The pure love that is expressed yet never overtly shown at the moment is a thing to cherish. I would look over just to make sure that my brother was still there, that he was safe, and that he was preoccupied with something fun to do. Not wanting anything from him for me and not even gesturing as if I were to offer him anything. Just a short glance to ensure that he was happy and that was all. In literature and in film, we often romanticize elongated moments of love, whether they be an intimate scene in the bedroom or the longing look a parent gives as they wish their children well during their first day of school. Oftentimes, we neglect and fail to appreciate the simple moments, during which love is more akin to a quiet river than a crashing wave of emotion.
The reason for this ode to love is that over the past year, I have been thinking a lot about it. As early as I can remember when folks would ask what I wanted to become, I would normally say a professional football player. Deep down, I had a second dream. I wanted to be in love. Still do. And it was love that got me into writing. Aside from writing as a part of my schoolwork growing up, I never wrote for fun unless it was about love. I remember vividly in the 8th grade, writing a love letter to this girl that I had feelings for. The night was dark and the atmosphere was muggy. If you were outside for too long, you might begin to be drenched in an indistinguishable layer of liquid that was partially your sweat and partially condensation from the humid air. Instead of taking a walk outside to think about my feelings for this girl, I decided to stay inside and enjoy the comforts of my air-conditioned room. Nature began to set the mood as a few hours later, it began to pour hard. Rain in the tropics can be very short and very intense. This was one of those instances. And as I would later learn, love can be like this too. I got out a pen and paper and began to write about this girl until my eyes were red, my hands sore, and my heart satisfied with the product. I don’t know if I ever shared this love letter with her but it is one of my earliest memories of writing in my own time and developing my understanding and relationship with the concept of love. Did I love that girl? Who knows.
Since then, I have had quite a few bouts wrestling with the L word and some of my favourite written pieces have come out of those experiences.
To be continued…
This piece was written during a brief burst of inspiration this Sunday evening. I don’t know what direction it will take on but I feel strongly that there is value in sharing an unfinished thought. Perhaps it is the literary equivalent of appreciating the journey before the destination.
