Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 40. Finding the Words

There were old hatreds. Those are part of another story. Now their families never met, never spoke, and all the people of the families were watched and kept strictly apart, as happens in old stories of hatred closely and carefully kept.

One day the girl, who was never anymore allowed to see the boy but who had secret ways of speaking to him, ways that confounded their keepers, stumbled on a precious thing.
A string of words.
She tried to wear it, but no one could see it.
She tried to share it, but no one could hear it.
She thought to put it in a secret place, but she felt it whimpering and knew that dark would kill it, so she took it back out and sat with the string in her hand, wondering, and they were sad together, she and the string.
She tried and tried, she did her best but she couldn't think what a string of words might be for, yet they sat in her hand and looked up at her hopefully, trusting.

And she thought, as she always did, of the boy.

She remembered, long ago, when once she had seen him, for a moment, they had spoken of a game sometimes played by their people, the tribe of speakers.
A story-toss game.
The game of Say and Say.
She thought, I can wrap this string in a secret and send it to the boy by the ways that confuse and confound and he will know what to do.
So she did.
She did.
And waited, looking off toward where she knew the boy was, hopefully, trusting.

The next day a little bundle came to her, a little bundle wrapped in a secret slipping down the hidden ways of mystery and conundrum, sliding and falling at her feet. She opened it and the string of words shouted up at her hopefully, trusting, jumping, hopping in a crowd of friends.

The boy had taken the string and made a scarf.

She wrapped the scarf around her arms, and by evening she had made of it a shawl. She wrapped it up, in the way she knew, the way she had learned, and sent it back to the boy who was hopeful and trustworthy.

He returned her back the shawl and mittens.

She wore the mittens all that day but sent them back before dark only by now the shawl was a cloak which she had made and in which he slept. She knew he slept cold.

This went on, days and days and nights, no one cold, no one lonely, everyone wrapped in a secret tied by words.

What could the world do but stand and shake its head, confounded?

This is not a story that ends, but it is all I will tell.
You may make more of it for yourself.
Find a string of words.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 39. In the Valley of the Shadow

My mother doesn't approve of it, she said looking out the window, she doesn't approve of love, of people being in love.
He was so startled, he looked over at her, turned to her so quickly that he turned the steering wheel too and the car swerved. He swore softly and corrected carefully, still looking over at her, disbelieving.
What is it? she asked, what's the matter?
What did you just say? he asked her. About your mother? What did you say?
That she doesn't approve of people being in love? she asked him. That? Look where you're driving.
Yes, he said and looked where he was driving, that. What do you mean? How can that be?
Oh, she said. Well, she doesn't approve of most things, you know she doesn't, but my mother doesn't approve of love. Or of passion, she went on, speaking more to herself now than to him, nor even, I think, of happiness, she said sounding surprised. Mother has never been in love herself, you know, and I think she disapproves of it in others.
Really? he asked, really?
Really, she said, smiling a hard little smile, watch them next time, watch my parents. Watch my father.

Your poor dad, he said after the next time, after he had been watching.
Yes, she said, I told you.
I always liked your dad, he said, sounding a little desperate, a little frantic.
Did you? she asked. You've never really even seen my dad, she said with that hard edge of amusement in her voice. Not until today. Not until I told you what to look for.
Still, he said and waved his hand but had no idea what he meant by it.
So you saw it, she said, looking straight in front of her out through the front window, out across the endless desert. You saw them, the way they are.
I saw it, he said, holding tight, tight to the steering wheel.

It's the worst thing I can imagine, she said suddenly as they crossed the state line, after she had been so silent that he had been unable to be anything but silent, silent until he could hear ringing in his ears, til he felt he had to kick something viciously to stay where he was, to stay sane.
Her words surprised him, surprised him so much.
The worst thing? he asked gently. What is? Tell me?
Not to believe. In anything. Not to want anything. Not in happiness, not a shred, not even a shred. And she was crying, just like that, just right there, without warning, without reason. It frightened him. He pulled the car over, reached out for her, unsure, frightened and unsure.
Hey, he said. Hey. Reached out. Arms around her. Two frightened people in a little speck of air conditioned car on the side of a perfectly straight road running as far through an endless desert as any human eyes could see.
You won't end up like your mother, he said with a sudden flash of understanding.
How do you know? she asked, how can you be sure? But it's not my mom I'm thinking about, she said, pushing him back a bit so she could focus on him. It's my dad. And she cried harder. I don't want to end up like my dad. She put her hands over her face.
He held her. What else could he do? She cried softly and he thought about it. Sweetheart, he said into her hair, sweetheart, what do you think I'm for? This is what I'm for, he said helplessly and tightened his arms around her. This is what I'm for. He felt her tears sliding hot down his neck, into his shirt. This is why I'm here, baby, he made strong words for her in the middle of that vast desert. This is why I'm here.