Somehow Lovely

An alley in the marketplace took me back to a hidden floral shop decorated by white flowers, weathered wood tables, and a stack of books of love poems written by Pablo Neruda. I stood in the shop amidst all the glorious white.

The humidity of the nearby La Jolla beach was thick and the strong fragrance of the flowers overwhelmed. The air was warm, my skin showed a deep tan, and my hair was wild from the wind on the beach.

At first, I entered the shop because it offered a cool shade from the heavy afternoon sun. Once inside, however, I grew enchanted by this sanctuary that protected me.

I took off my sunglasses and picked up a worn book of poems. It spontaneously fell open to his poem "Soneto XLV" as if others read the poem more frequently than the others. I opened the book at that place, read the poem once quickly, and then a second time much more slowly and carefully. After re-reading some portions for a third time, I closed the book, returned it to the table, and looked around the shop.

My thoughts lingered as I stood barefoot on the wood floor, my dress moving from the air of the ceiling fan overhead. Its clicking was meditative, slowing time and offering a heightened awareness of the present moment.

Aware of each breath, my mind meandered back and forth between perceptions of the surroundings and thoughts about the poem. I had not experienced the love it described.

Thinking it would be quite remarkable to be loved by the author, I closed my eyes and questioned how one would ever find another soul that inspired such an impassioned connection — an attraction of body, mind, and spirit.

I was young and found that prospect intriguing, something to pursue. Could I ever find someone whose words drew me in and keep me mesmerized? Or, better yet, could I ever love someone who found me so remarkable that his soul begged for it to be captured in words?

The thoughts were brief but salient.

Reflection waned, and I opened my eyes to look around the shop. The merchant was not present, so I decidedly took one last deep breath of the fragrance that filled the room and started my departure.

As I turned, a young merchant walked in briskly and positioned himself behind the counter, a bit out of breath. He smiled, apologized for his absence, and settled himself. After pausing for a noticeable moment, he kindly and slowly asked, "What do you think of him?"

When a look of confusion came across my face, the merchant laughed in a low, warm tone, and explained that he was asking what I thought of Pablo Neruda's work. His expression was inquisitive.

A bit taken back by the young man's question that referenced nothing of the floral shop, I produced an answer that was so raw and truthful that, when I think back on it, I still feel some embarrassment.

As if like a child who spoke only with innocence, I announced to the merchant that it would be somehow lovely to be loved in that manner. "It seems remarkable that a poet loves his lover another to such a degree that the thought of it fills his mind and then becomes permanent on his page," I explained. "I also think it'd be quite nice to find a lover who fascinated me with his words and declared his love clearly," I added, not realizing that I was quite frank with someone I did not know.

The young merchant looked at me for a moment, taking in what I said.

I was about 19 years old and, though he seemed to be only a few years older, I sensed he had more wisdom, some of which he wanted to impart to me. Reflecting on what he was about to say, he looked down at his feet, put his hands in his pockets, and shifted his weight onto one foot. He re-balanced onto both feet, pushed his hands further in his pockets, and looked at me as if shy and familiar at the same time.

Reconnecting with my gaze, he explained with a slight bit of seriousness that it is hard to find someone to love in that manner. He paused and then added that it is more difficult to find a man who knows how to write of such love.

After this prefacing explanation, the merchant slowly walked around the counter. He took the book in his hands and moved to stand a few steps in front of me. Smiling gently, he looked down with a reflective inhale, exhaled slowly, and then looked back up at me.

Unsure what would follow, I noticed his slight nervousness and hesitation. He took a step closer, straighten his spine a bit, opened the book, and softly cleared his throat.

The book fell open to the page he wanted, and he lifted his head, found my gaze, and looked me directly in the eyes.

His presence was loving, not proud, nor too confident, and not disrespectful or presumptuous.

A step away from him, I could smell both his cologne and the scent of his freshly cleaned clothes. His gaze was steady, confident, and constant. I could do nothing other than take him in. I met his gaze and noticed the many shades of brown in his eyes.

Then, in a deep Spanish accent, he slowly read and recited "Te Amo". He said it in English first and then again in Spanish, referencing the book only a few times so that we would maintain our gaze.

The words of the poem fell beautifully from his voice and surrounded me. He put effort into connecting the words with our moment together and put intention into sustaining our connection.

As I listened to him, I seemed to understand that a moment of intimacy such as this might be rare in life, or at least, that this kind of moment is, in some way, sacred.

Entranced by both the poem and the man, time stilled and etched a distinct memory that continues to live vividly in my mind to this day.

After the recitation, we stood in silence for a few moments. I could taste the air, hear the cars outside, notice the sunlight, and feel my breathing all at once.

He whispered that he never read a love poem to anyone. "Nobody even comes to this shop," he stated. He explained further that his father owns the store, his mother arranges the flowers, and both parents said that a floral shop of just flowers and words of love serves itself.

On this day, I recognized the attractiveness of vulnerability.

We were interrupted by the sound of my sister calling my name out from the heart of the market. The calls were echoing back and forth between the shops that lined the alley.

Hearing this, he turned slowly and quietly and lifted a copy of Neruda's book of poetry from a cabinet and told me he wished I would find the love I seek someday. His smile brightend and said it is more important to to find deserving dedication.

I shifted my gaze to the floor, shuffled my feet a bit, giggled, and then mumbled that maybe I would find it by returning to see him again, and then offered a shy, slightly awkward smile.

With caution, I looked back up at him and found him looking at me with a gentle kindness.

He lowered his eyes for a moment as if thinking, took in a nervous breath of hesitation and then looked up as if taking me in this time. He stepped closer to me.

Slowly and with a noticeable tenderness, he lifted a small amount of my hair off my shoulder and kissed me gently on my neck, just below my hairline.

I could feel the warmth of his slight exhale as he allowed the kiss to linger for a moment. He then stepped a bit further away, held each of my hands in his, looked in my eyes again and said, "I find you lovely."

The words filled the room and resonated in my mind.

I did not see the young man after that day. I left California to return home the day after visiting the floral shop. As I got older, I realized that moments of attraction such as this are remarkable and sometimes deceiving and worthy of caution.

I think back to that sweet moment of unhindered intimacy. The young man shared with me a connection that later defined what I find to be most attractive in another human being.

I sometimes think back to that day and wonder what became of the young man who completely stole my childish heart. Did he ever found the love he wanted? Did he ever use Neruda's poetry to declare his love, express his feelings, or feign seduction? Or, did life wear away his gentleness as it does to some as they get older?

As I grow older, it becomes more frequent that I feel much less than remarkable. I sometimes question if I am worthy of the love I receive.

Yet, because of that young merchant in the floral shop in La Jolla, to this day, when I am kissed on the neck just below my hairline, I feel a sense of tenderness and devotion.

And, at those times, no matter what opinion I have of myself — tired, despicable, ugly, old, stagnant, boring ... you name it, the truth is, there is never a time when I am kissed in that way where I cannot help but feel that I may, in fact, somehow be lovely.