Matter of Time

I had first seen the little church on my drive back from Ann Arbor, the cross atop the highest point peaking from the scraggly branches begging for a spring phoenix rebirth. The sky was overcast, a dull gray that situated itself over the land like an old woman’s afghan, and a CD I had recently bought was skipping across my speakers. But… I was completely happy, and drove home content while thinking, I’m going to take her here someday. Just you watch.

Couple years and a two seasons later, I kept my promise and we were lingering outside it, staring in a quiet little awe at the church and the cemetery it stood vigil over. After taking several winding backroads, country in their neglected ways, we were finally able to arrive at the silent little patch of land, speckled with new and corroded memory stone slabs. We stepped through the iron gates (small things that they were, coming only to my hips), and everything was a golden inferno. Little leafy flames fluttered down on kind gusts, resting across a grass that had yet to be fingered by the kiss of a first frost. The sky was settling down against the horizon, sinking below the protective line of blazing maples; God, I loved Michigan in October.

The church was casting a long shadow across us, and we both craned our necks back to look where the gothic cross played where the first was star peeking out. The building was slowly falling into disarray, with peeling brown paint along the smudged stained glass windows and patches in the roof looking slightly eroded from the cruel storms we were known to possess. With a basic design of a cathedral, shrunk down to a small town, backwater convenient structure, the opposing awe had been nicely traded for a subtle comfort and an appreciation for the art. Everything was art: the broken tombstones with simple names like “Mallory” and “Anderson” mixed among the random “Corvecky” and “Deften”, the rusted edges of the cross over our heads, the cement bench that was chipped and weathered over in a far corner under a few trees.

With no vocals exchanged, we began to head towards that comfortable little area under the umbrella branches and campfire leaves. Neither one of us were overly religious, and this little trek was all for a romantic purpose, I could assure you. Perhaps most couples would not be overwhelmed by a cemetery, could not find the beauty in granite slabs polished and damaged by cruel weather, or in plucked flowers, left to remember and die.

But, we were never like most couples.

She took a place on the unyielding seat, and rather than join her up there, I nestled down on the ground at her feet. I always liked the grass better, more comfortable, soft like a shag carpet. I laid my head down in her lap, dark curls strewn across her thighs, and her fingers invaded my ringlets and my senses, stroking, petting.

We were quiet that day, which was always a feat for me, the giggly, bubbly girl that tends to never shut up. But then again, she always had that knack of calming me, completing me, didn’t she? At one point, she grabbed a few autumn leaves and stuck them in my hair, leaving me to make a comment about feeling like some ancient Greek mythical goddess or the like. I closed my eyes, the world being blotted out into a dark void, and she was the only soul I knew, only one I cared enough to want to know. In the moments like this, in the serenity that came with being under her touch, her eyes, this was all sanity and the love that a person could hold. Heaven had no place for me, when everything I had ever wished for was lingering right above me.

Michigan nights could be a bitter cold, and even with the lulling fragrance of a fall in full swing about us, I know that it was time to get going soon. I was wearing my little nylon coat, black with a golden pyramid and my last name spelled across it for the mason company my father works for; I knew I should have worn my leather with it’s insured warmth, but I wanted as little as possible between her and I. Selfish and a little foolish? Ahh, but it was all worth it in the end.

The fires changed for the kiss of dusk, and in the growing shadows, the fireflies were beginning to come out, blinking in and out like spasming lightbulbs on their last leg of filament. One landed on her knee, and my lashes peeled back enough so I could stare at it, so close that if I pursed my lips and blew, it would tumble from her grace. The raccoons would be coming out soon, though, and the possums, the nocturnal little bastards that would sooner shred your hand apart than look at you.

I shifted, my cheek rubbing against her thigh a little more, before I craned my neck and looked up at her. There was no moon that night, just the darkening expanse of a sky, but she gave off her own light, her own little halo. Her lips were quirked in a delicate smile, a few leaves poking out of her hair by her ears like little wings. The sky was dotted with the moving stars of the lightning bugs, and we just stared at each other for a long, silent moment.

And all I could, all that mattered in my head was, God, I love her.

“We should get going.” I think I said that, that it was my voice thick with regret. She nodding, the leaf on the right falling loose before catching in her hair a few inches down. The same reluctance was in her eyes, staring down at me, but we both knew we had little say in it.

I lingered there for a few moments longer, her hands drifting down to my cheek and little gifted fingers brushing over my bones, my flesh. The church windows were black now, the shadow an endless pit. Around us, the wind has grown up a knot, bearing lake temperatures on its deepening caress. I sighed, and though the air did not carry a little smoky puff of my breath yet, given another two hours, and I knew it would.

Finally, I found my legs and climbed slowly to my feet, dusting my jeans free of the dirt and grass, though the leaves in my hair remain. I had a book at home, a little scrap one, that would be a perfect home for the golden and red maple foliage after placed within a page of waxpaper (a trick taught to me by my mother). Holding out a hand to her, she slid her fingers through my own and rose. The few leaves fell completely free of her hair, fluttering down around her before the wind took them and brushed them against Mrs. Jackfeld’s marker, hiding the “mother”, though keeping “loving”.

Raising my love’s hand, I pressed a kiss to the back of it, my eyes closed as I just experienced her taste, feel against my palmers. I thought about loving her lips, kissing them a million times over, but rustling that sounded too animalistic to be the wind struck my ears, and going home sounded like a better idea. I straightened, and with her hand in mine, we weaved along the little path, avoiding stepping on the endless sleepers. Respecting the dead was always something I believed in.

My car was impossible to miss, little 95 Saturn with its glittering golden that turned a dull, pale brown under the lack of lights. Little fireflies were flickering on and off around it, and with a smile, I just squeezed her hand before unlocking the doors.

We drove home without hurry, fingers linked while some random quiet song was played through my lackluster speakers. I tightened my grip on her when we passed by roadkill, and talked of what was on the roster for the following morning (mostly consisting of lying in bed and cuddling until noon or until the need to do something was impossible to ignore). The billboards didn’t start until a mile down the way, intrusive and bright, gaudy. I was glad we had a little peace until then.

I thought about asking her right then, just popping those words right out of my mouth. What would she say? What sort of things would run through her head, and how well could I take it if she said “no”? After all, I couldn’t just go hide in my room while driving eighty down the freeway.

Plus, I didn’t have a ring. Yet. Though she was far from materialistic (have I mentioned lately that I love her?), I still couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Yet.

So, driving down the road at eighty (sometimes eighty-five without knowing), the church fell away behind us, though not forever. I liked places like that, calm and quiet, and I knew she did as well. It was just a matter of time before we returned.
A matter of time, just like everything else.

Matter of Time

The End