Mon Cher Aza or Zilia Renamed: II

She remembered when he found out she’d be going away to college—his response, though wordless, said more than anything they’d ever said to one another. They’d been sitting in the only class they ever had together for all of high school. Unusually for that day, he sat in front of her. As the students all went around and said where they were going to school, what they were doing with their lives after graduation, she remembered his reaction when the teacher got to here. She’d held off telling him personally, waiting for the right moment; but she never got up the courage, and then it was her turn and she had to say it, with him sitting right there.

 

She saw his back tense and then relax with defeat when she said it. And then he was still with the shock of it. He didn’t turn to look at her the rest of class. They didn’t joke or make cynical comments to one another. They didn’t try to make the other break out laughing at inappropriate times, casually fall asleep on the other one’s desk. Today was not a day to play with his unnaturally moldable hair, which she often did until he looked like he’d been in a bad fight—a fight he’d won, at least. His body language asked her why she’d chosen to go away. It asked why she hadn’t told him before, why she hadn’t consulted him before making this decision like he’d wanted to do with her.  And she knew she was right because he said as much to her later—on the night when she went home a cried, confused at what she’d done.

Here under the tree, she felt his arm around her and she knew he remembered too. This gesture forgave her.

Together they walked on—the trees lights distilling drops of forgiveness and healing, whispering promises for a future of many similar walks together. She settled into his side with a sigh as they turned a corner. She saw their figures looking back at her in the reflecting pool—strangely distorted by the floating orbs of light that crossed the surface. They stared at one another in the reflection and her throat caught and fear seized in her stomach. “Ella…,” he began, concerned.

She pulled away, still looking at his reflection only. “In one of my classes,” she began, “we read about a Peruvian woman taken from her home during the 18^th century. She went to live in France and her betrothed—separated from her—lived in Spain. She remained faithful to him, writing him letters and standing constant in the faith they shared. When she found him again the languages and cultures they adopted separated them. They were too different.”  She always did this, saying but not saying what she meant. She only did it with him, because he understood.

“Are you sure,” he asked, his voice failing a little.

“I’m sorry. I’ve made my decision. I don’t understand it, but I’ve made it just the same.”

“I guess I just thought, even after three years…”

“I’m not coming back here when I’m done.”

“And I’m not leaving again.”

“I got sick of missing you too soon. I had to find my way without you.”

“I never did.”

“You will now. I’ll help you”