My Parent's Reconciliation Vacation (excerpt from Proverbial Woman), Part II

One of the small things they shared in common was their sense of humor. Together they would turn an awkward situation into a moment of playfulness.

Though often serious minded with an airy attitude toward most things, he would easily fall prey to most pranks she would surprise him with. Most of the time he would follow with calculated acts of his own. It was the affection behind their jovial moods that proved to be the driving force of their good times.

They would often lose themselves in their moments of fun, sometimes forgetting they were in public or somewhere other than the privacy of their home. The chemistry they shared most couples could only dream of having after years of marriage.

One time I witnessed the two of them without ever uttering a word, hold brief conversations with one another from across a room. On separate occasions I asked each of them how was that possible without being in close proximity of one another. And they both replied, “it’s just a matter of listening to what is in your heart.”

Upon arriving at the door of their suite the fate of sixteen years of marriage, hopes of two daughters, and reasons of an affair that had just recently ended, waited on the other side. They knew the next twenty-four hours were going to be a pivotal point in their marriage. As nervous as they were, both knew it was necessary in reaching reconciliation.

Their mood from the elevator had suddenly changed from playful to a somber state of apprehension. Standing before the door, he nervously reached into his pocket searching for the keycard. Noticing a worried look settling upon his face, she tenderly reached in and gently kissed him on his cheek.

“Thanks for everything. Especially the best memories you’re going to give me.” She whispered as she gazed into his eyes, while removing the card from his hand, then opening the door.

As they entered inside, an aura of intimacy engulfed them as they stood in awe of the remarkable beauty of the room. Momentarily standing in silence as their pupils heightened under the lure of the soft radiant glow emanating from the large candles that burned with the scent of French Vanilla, they both seemed at a lost for words.

Everything was beautifully prepared and strategically placed around the room. Including several combinations of various tropical plants and rare flowers that incited the sensual feeling of mental allurement.

Placed about the spacious surroundings were several dozens of exotic Casablanca Lilies. Adding a touch of elegance, their vivid presence alluded to the mystic appearance of an exotic boudoir, preferably designed for an Eighteenth-century Venetian palace.

My father has always been one to put forth a valiant effort when planning and carrying out a special event for the two of them. No matter what the occasion was, he believed in giving one hundred percent or nothing at all.

This sense of fulfillment grew out of Mother Celia’s beliefs and her gentle approach to rearing him. Her sincerity ultimately became the guiding force in his heart, especially when it comes to putting the concerns of others first.

For many years she taught him that a Godly man follows the love in his heart and gives without season. A validating effort of what he has learned is reflected in his decision to fight to keep his marriage and family together. True to form of a committed spouse, he is proving to be that kind of man for standing by her.

“How about a drink, before we go down for dinner?” he asked, apprehensively.

“Yes, please. I’ll like to take a shower first,” she replied, as she turned and walked into the adjoining room.

“The usual?” he yelled, as she faded beyond the door.

“Yes. Please…” she yelled back.

Turning and moving toward the bar, he suddenly realized he had started humming a song the two of them heard for the first time when they shared their first weekend getaway.

Mother especially loved it, obviously for more reasons than he.

Titled “In the Mist…” The artist sings of a woman’s first experience of feeling pleasure from the hands of a man for the first time. In poetic detail she describes the feeling of a man’s touch when he knows how to indiscriminately touch a woman with tenderness.

Once confessing to my father and me, she said it reminds her of what she felt the first time they made love. Throughout the years that followed, she started associating the lyrics with a recurring fantasy of her standing nude within the twisting of misty winds at the base of a waterfall on a cool, breezy night.

As a recurring joke between the two of them, they would often laugh at the sight of anything remotely mindful of a waterfall. Though she once she said to me of my father, “even if he ceased to speak the words he feel, it wouldn’t matter much. Because his touch speaks the words of his heart in unspoken volumes.”

I often watched as they communicated. Sometimes their eyes and physical contact would express more than what some lovers would say to one another over a lifetime. For those around them, the love they shared was obvious. Together they endured what time could only sustain and dictate, but never conquer.

As a result of what is happening, our home has become of a place tension. It has been quite some time since I’ve seen any happiness in the kitchen, a place were we often congregated. It seems as if we’ve lost that bond that once defined us as a family. Every time I pass through or sit in there, I think of the good times we once had.

It’s funny…now looking back on it, what I once considered as nothing more than a way of building emotional bond, could very well turn out to be the binding thread in the mending of our broken lives. In most instances, it is often the same thread of life that is a part of every incident and subsequent trial that causes us to revert back to when we first started identifying with our feelings.

Realizing in the end what matters most is the holding on to those memories that were once lived, what often goes without expression is the un-denying yearning in our hearts for that moment of innocence when our feelings were at their most sincerest. For her it will always be that song that will spark a memory of that eventful time in their lives. And for him, it will always be the look in her eyes the first moment they met.

Standing with his back to the door of the adjoining room, out of the solitude of his silent reverie he subtly sensed her presence shadowing him. Without hesitation, in one swift motion he turned. And much to his surprise, to see her standing with beads of water forming upon her freckled-toned, sloping shoulders.

“Darling, do you remember that song I loved so much?” she asked.

“Yes. How could I forget?” he answered, with a bewildered look in his eyes.

“‘In the Mist’… I was just thinking about that time…” he paused. “My God…I’d almost forgotten how beautiful you look when step out of the shower,” he added.

“Why thank you Mr. Romero. I’ll have that drink now,” she added, as she tightened the towel around her, shrugging her shoulders in a childlike manner.

“Here…” he whispered as he handed it to her.

Captivated by her flawless beauty as she stood before him, slowly he withdrew his fingers as she seductively palmed the glass, before turning and then gracefully moving across the room through the opened door. Taken by her sensual appeal, in a disoriented stupor he aimlessly reached for the nearby stool as he sat and began to reflect on their marriage.

After all these passing years the love he has for her still renders him vulnerable. Whenever feeling left in a compromising position, he would often retreat within the confines of his thoughts. Rationalizing between the sensual persuasion of her charm, and the motives behind her actions. Ever since the first time they met, he has always seen her physical beauty as a powerful and alluring part of her character.

They had been separated for nearly nine months.