It was time for me to say my goodbyes to everyone that night. I was the first attendee to leave the intimate birthday gathering so many years ago. Too many years ago. He was on sidelines of the group that remained and mingled - towards the far right. Light blue jeans. Dark hair. Black shirt. Being himself.
I knew even before I turned around that he was watching me walk to the other side of the room and out of the venue’s glass “Exit” doors. We were, for a time, that connected. Yet I turned around regardless. I always loved the way he looked at me. And probably vice versa.
It was as if he was gazing at something rare and extraordinary - something he accidentally stumbled upon that should be protected - with a great deal of love. Hell, he told me he loved me all the time. He knew I saw him staring at me that night. I paused by the exit. He didn’t stop. He didn’t send me off with a warm, friendly, jovial grin-and-nod. He just seemed to take in the fact that I was leaving.
I do not think I have ever looked at myself that way, even when I was very young. I’m sure I looked at the world around me with adoration. It probably never occurred to me to love myself just as it never occurred to me to feel shame.
Sometimes I find old photos and see how certain people look at me - My parents. Grandparents. Once swooning ex boyfriends.
I don’t see “myself” in their eyes. There are plenty of secrets I hold from each one. And how could they ever be objective?
But in those glossy images I can point and say “I was here”, and to these people, I was more than alive - I was a gift, a prayer, something to protect - and what they needed to see.
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