If I’m lucky, you will tell me that you care,
That we’ll never be apart . . .
If I’m lucky, this will be no light affair,
It’s forever, from the start . . .
If I’m lucky, there’ll be moonbeams all around,
Shining bright as day . . .
You will hold my hand and you’ll understand,
All I cannot seem to say . . .
If I am lucky, there will be a time an’ place
You will kiss me, we’ll embrace . . .
In that moment, every wishful dream I ever knew
Will come true . . .
If I’m lucky, I will go through the years with you . . .
Sometimes I wonder whether I will be this lucky.
Perhaps my life is repeating itself, after all, like a broken record…
Life gets more complicated as one grows older. As the years past, the living gets mixed with one’s memories, and the rough patches become a point of silence. A little part of yesterday’s scenery calls back with a voice “Don’t go there again…you are heading down the path with those quiet streetlights…”
“You will feel that lonely again.”
And life felt like you did not know where you were going, how the other was thinking, that there might be a chasm between the two which even a lawyer’s brain cannot adequately fix even with the appropriate words. My words are not easily found, and even written, I sometimes find myself caught up in a vicious cycle of trying to rectify things that have gone too fast for me. Days, people, mistakes do not essentially fix themselves, or lend themselves to fixing very well in my world.
But still those, and these, days have been some of the happiest. And maybe the tenderness of life, like a Fitzgerald novel, serves to remind me I have to stop being preoccupied with endings, since endings do not seem to be within my choice after all this time. Instead there are the moments, the stories, the thought of a boy in a room of unfinished violins, a song unsung and a quote left unsaid in French, and a wish to travel the world to that little restaurant at the top of the Chicago building.
Life is still beautiful! Life will be beautiful. I will live life, endlessly and decadently, in an ardent effort to make it that way.
Someone opened his soul to me once, and that glimmer was iridescent, and brilliant, and witty, and memorable. When closed, things will stay that way. I am no longer the 17 year old girl crying by the lights in the quay. Slowly, I have grown to understand some things through the years.
And the waltz was very pretty, thank you.