It’s a strange thing, to know where your lover is in a crowded room without hearing his voice or catching sight of him. I just know when he comes in. I know when he’s moved off to the right or the left. It is as if in some ways we have become one, or he has become my own creation.
I know when Beloved is talking about that scar, the one that runs just down there and makes him look a bit more pensive than he should. I can tell without hearing him, without watching his hands. I already know when he is talking about this because I know him so well. I know him, perhaps better, than I know myself.
Beloved knows when I walk into a crowded room without having to look for the top of my head (it’s the curse of a vertically challenged person). He does not have to hear my voice to know if I am heading his way or away from him. We have, in some ways, become one. Attuned to each other as many couples seem to become.
I didn’t set out to have this in my life. I never asked for such a person who would the other part of me, the part that is more calm and level-headed. I did not want to have someone complete me in a way that he could press the broken parts of my heart back together. I don’t suspect he set out to find someone who has become known as a “fire cracker” among his friends. I doubt he said his life was missing someone who was “feisty” and not likely to back down from any challenge. And yet here we are.
In some ways we hold each other’s brokenness together while at the same time trying to fill in the gaps and missing pieces the way you might glue a broken piece of pottery back together. It’s never perfect, it’s always going to show the scars (yes even those inflicted by the one who has opted to put things back together), but it somehow works. And it some how works that we know where each other happens to be when we are together. And when we are apart, it’s as if there is room to breathe, for those broken pieces to relax a little bit and the cracks to start to feel a bit looser again.
He does not make the brokenness go away, after all surely that is part of the human condition. Rather he helps to shift the brokenness into a more manageable place, to where I am not just broken, but I can be whole if somewhat shattered. And this somehow makes me a better person, or so I tell myself as I revel in the idea that I too am a bit of his own creation, after all he has shifted and rearranged the pieces he can, dropping those that he can’t. Surely we are somewhat each other’s creation or modification without meaning to do either of those very things to one another.