After Dark

A friend reached out. Touched by Karen’s story, she wrote: “I still have a lump in my throat.” I understood, of course.

I walked much of yesterday. Not for new experience, but to connect. In the evening, at the time when I normally prepare for bed, I went out. As everyone knows, Europeans, particularly in the south, are night people. Lisbon is no different. It may, in fact, have written the book on life beginning after dark.

It was a short metro ride to the the Old Town. Sunset long passed, a different light marked the way.

Ascending a narrow stairway,

I emerged onto a quiet street, a lone cafe offering outside seating. The evening’s special was written on a chalkboard adjacent to the entry - creamed broccoli and potato soup. As one does after breaking a fast, I moved slowly, savoring the soup, the bread, the wine, each complementing the other.

A young couple was seated next to me. Engaging in small talk. Getting to know each other. I thought of Karen and Charlie, their first conversations, and their last. After a while, the young couple left and I was alone.

Moving on, a book store caught my eye,

and I entered.

There were the familiar classics, and many more, telling stories I’ll never know. A young woman approached. We talked about poetry. She handed me a slim volume, English on the left, Portuguese on the right. I asked if I could tell her a story. Deferential to her elders, she consented.

I was fifty, or thereabouts, studying Spanish for two weeks in a small Peruvian town. On an afternoon I happened on a school for girls. Entering, I inquired if I might observe a class. Soon, I was in front of about twenty girls, white blouses and blue jumpers. At some risk, I thought, I opened my slim volume of love poems penned by Pablo Neruda. English on the left, Spanish on the right. I read one poem, then another, in Spanish. Looking up, I saw that each girl had been moved, gazing in rapture, wiping their eyes. With some hesitation, I turned back toward the old nun. She was wiping her eyes as well.

The young bookseller thanked me, took my hand warmly, then wiped her eyes.

I moved on, entering one restaurant then another, wanting to connect.

There was laughter, intimacy, connection all about.

Midnight neared and I made my way to the Metro, stopping to honor a young musician.

She was playing the theme to Dr. Zhivago.

I was transported back to the final scene - the old doctor on the train recognizes Laura on the street. Unable to connect, he watches as she passes by, unaware of his gaze.

I think of Karen, and her new life. Charlie, with a lump in his throat.

Every morning I receive an email, a poem or reading, from the pastor of the Unitarian Church of All Souls in Manhattan. This morning’s poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

I imagine Karen speaking to Charlie:

If thou must love me, let it be for nought,

except for love's sake only.

Do not say “I love her for her smile, her look,

her way of speaking gently,

a trick of thought that falls in well with mine.”

For these things in themselves, Beloved,

may be changed, or change for thee . . .

But love me for love's sake,

that evermore thou may'st love on,

through love's eternity.