Tesoro mio

Yours, Carolina - 8 Jan 17

I: Let’s see, the last time we met…
R: Was La Belle Aurore.
I: How nice, you remembered. But of course, that was the day the Germans marched into Paris.
R: Not an easy day to forget.
I: No.
R: I remember every detail. The Germans wore gray, you wore blue.

I can remember exactly what I was wearing that cold October morning. A long blue and white checked wrap skirt, a big fluffy white jumper, a long blue frock coat stopping me from shivering as I sat on the cold stones. The next time, I was wearing a different skirt with flowers and a black top with a ribbon tie. Same coat. A warmth within. I remember those details, but not the big things.

Why do we remember the small stuff? Is it just the way our brains are wired? Rick in Casablanca took in every detail of his time with Isla in Paris, it was branded in his soul. All the things that were grabbed together to keep the memory, like a hand clawing at a window ledge, trying not to fall. Every detail absorbed and stored away in a protective environment. Not too much moisture or heat. Very safe. The precious memory. Precious because it had a sense of fragility about it. It’s preservation was vital. It was a premature child with only days to live. Every moment was too short. Time took away the thing you loved and in it’s place you were left with this perfect memory. Every. Single. Detail.

The love two men shared for Isla in Casablanca is quite sobering. Her husband loved her so much he wanted her to flee Casablanca to the safety of the USA without him. Rick loved her so much he projected into the future, and decided for her that she would be happier with her husband in the States. Both loves are self-sacrificing. However, Rick’s love trumps Victor’s because he considers the whole of her, now he knows the truth, he understands her so well, that he knows if she were to abandon her husband, that she couldn’t live with the guilt and it would destroy that perfect memory that she and Rick had. The memory of Paris was too sacred. It had to be protected at all costs, and so, he let her go.

I’ve been wracking my brain for details about my chance encounter on Brighton Beach. Aside from clothing and geography, my memory does not want to divulge it’s secrets to me. I know Brighton was not exactly soon-to-be-invaded-France, but it was a precious memory. Not as emotionally charged with World-changing politics happening in the background, but significant none the less. There was no sense of desperation and desire to hold on to every detail, but the details seem to have run through my fingers and all I’m left holding are a couple of big stones. I gaze at them as if they belong to someone else. They are not mine.

All this reflection started almost 22 years to the exact day that I first had this encounter. Almost to the exact day. How do you explain that? What witchcraft is at work in my head that caused that memory to flip out like a record selected on a jukebox? Is this something beyond what can be explained or is it just that most banal of words, coincidence?

I don’t believe in coincidence. I used the word just the other day in conversation with my children. They asked what it meant, and I’m ashamed to say I needed to look it up, as when it came to explaining I found I actually wasn’t sure. I needed clarity. It means: A remarkable concurrence of events or circumstances without apparent causal connection.

So, in other words, for my memory to be stirred and this to be a coincidence, it would mean my memory not being involved. As surely, that, right there is a causal connection. Right? Once the information is filed, it’s filed. So if it’s cross referenced then it’s not coincidence, there’s already a series of synapses connecting that file to other files.

If I’m right, and this definition is to be believed, then what happened to pop this memory into my head, and then action it, is beyond my waking comprehension. It’s of another place. It was bidden into my world unconsciously through sleight of hand.

This is a rather far-fetched idea though really. That there are forces at work that we have no control of. Is it fate? Is it just the path I’m meant to be following? Was the path I was on all those years ago actually my true purpose? Have the years since been spent trying to find the map to get back to the place I recognised? The place I felt safe? The warm embrace of a place?

I have no way of answering this question. All I can do is look at the facts. The ones now, fresh in my memory. Not the hazy sun-dappled half-remembered ones from Brighton. The main fact is that when this decade-long connection was reestablished it felt like putting on the warmest, nicest, snuggest coat. It was a still-warm blanket. Our warmth hadn’t diminished, it was palpable. And that, dear reader, says everything to me. Without even touching, it was present. And when we embraced, then time stopped. Life changed.

There are friendships that go for years, and even decades, without the celebration of getting together in person. But it’s ok, you know it’s there. If you’re lucky, those people you love in your life don’t always need to be in the here and now and visiting for a true friendship to last the years. It was set in stone so long ago, you can rely on it’s permanence. It wont let you down, it’s part of what you are. Part of your ballast. And you, are part of theirs.

But what of romantic love? Love is a different fish. Not known for it’s staying power once the moment has moved on. It’s usually dealt with then and there and packaged away in your mind, sometimes in a lead-lined box. Because otherwise you can’t move on. You would always be in limbo. Like Rick and Isla. That is a I-can’t-live-without-you love. There’s really no box that can contain that, no matter how hard you try. All the great love stories are written on this premise. You can’t put the love back in the box. It will seep out eventually. You are trying to contain something that can’t be touched. It’s a will-o’-the-wisp.

So what of my fleeting encounter, curtailed so short? Could it have been love? It could. But not the kind that undermined all subsequent relationships. Or at least I think it didn’t.
It could be the kind that is ignited and stays burning quietly, unseen for years. So deeply hidden, but alive. Covered by the passing of relationships, New Years Eve’s, jobs, children, houses. But all along you carry it with you, in your heart. I carry you in my heart.

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
E.E. Cummings

It’s looking like it’s the soul that’s responsible for all this. The soul that keeps these special things. The magical things. And it nurtures them. And maybe when you’re ready and the timing is right, it releases them back to you. Not in an obvious way. You have to figure that out for yourself. Your brain must catch up with your emotions, that’s important. Otherwise it means nothing.

So the seed is planted, and the soul feeds it, and then when it’s grown strongly enough, it is let go. And it pops into your subconscious, and you act on it. And then, you stand back and watch with wonder what happens next. You are watching your true destiny unfolding before your eyes and you can’t take your gaze off it. It’s too beautiful and too bright to look at sometimes, and it fills your heart and your soul, and eventually, your mind and it’s the only thing that makes sense.

Now I’m reconciled with my soul, I am able to store those minute details. Collect them, hoard them. They are to be treasured. Tesoro mio. And here I come full circle to Humphrey Bogart. This is a I-can’t-live-without-you love. This is the fertile love where memories grow. And I very much hope my story doesn’t end like his did. With a tearful look back and gunfire. I want my happy ending. I’ve waited a long time, I hope this is it.

So, dear reader, I hope this finds you on a more solid place than a precipice of love. I hope you’re not holding on to the past but embracing the now and excited about the future.

Yours, Carolina

Yours, Carolina

Writer and aspiring novelist who loves Jaffa Cakes, Michael Buble, Colin Firth, Audrey Hepburn, dramatic eyeliner and laughing until it hurts. Has children, which is nice. Once drank a whole bottle of tabasco sauce for a bet. Childhood crushes included Poncherello from Chips, Monkey (from Monkey Magic), Mr Claypole from Rentaghost and both of the Dukes of Hazzard boys. Doesn't like noodles.

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