My Collaborator

There have, on occasion, been moments in my life when a scene would suddenly take on a preternatural clarity. Though rare, such moments seem to expand the picture in my eyes to reveal the meaning and significance behind the images, as though a motion picture had stopped and the director had stepped in front of the screen with a pointer, verbally illuminating details which had previously seemed insignificant. Such an event occurred late last year when I happened to glance at a close friend and saw, not for the first time but with new clarity, her remarkable beauty and the strength behind it.

We were in a room that functioned, in my tiny house, as living room, dining room, bedroom, study, and entry hall. We were kneeling in front of the desk which supported my word processor. I was at the keyboard; she was to my right. Various papers notes and drafts from our weeks of preparation were spread out on the floor around us. I glanced over at her to address some point we had been discussing, and the image of her, illuminated by overcast sunshine filtered through sheer curtains and projected against the dark wooden walls, caught my eye. Time seemed to freeze as though in a snapshot, and I studied the image captured there.

Wisps of her blond hair, nearly as fine as the strands of a spider’s web, caught the diffuse morning light and led my eye back to her head. Her hair was cropped short enough to fully expose her long, slender neck. Because she was kneeling, her head and shoulders were held straight and her back was erect. Her skin had a sparkling glow that was enhanced by a fine sheen of perspiration. Her full, well colored lips had a slight pout, as though she had just detected some minor imperfection in our work. Her left ear, toward me, was graced by three delicate golden loops of graduated size, the largest in front. I scanned the finely–chiseled slope of her small but regal nose. Next my gaze crossed to, and lingered on, her eyes.

As they took in the sight of our emerging creation, her blue–green eyes reflected the bluish light from the word processor’s screen. I could clearly see her pupils move as she read across the electron phosphor page, scanning each line with her perfectionist’s zeal for rooting out flaws. I thought of other times I had noticed her eyes: squinting through pinpoint pupils as we basked in the sun after English class discussing assignments and lectures, politics and religion, or love and marriage; large, dark, and soft as we sat for hours with red wine and poetry books, solving the world’s problems while lamenting our own; close up, moist, and searching during those rare intimate conversations when she revealed, bit by bit, the compassion, intelligence, wit, sensitivity, and understanding that characterized her life.

Drawing myself back to the present moment, I allowed my gaze to drop down past her proud shoulders, and I noticed the gentle curve of her small, sensuous breasts. Though I had not known her in what she referred to as her “pert days,” prior to the birth of her two children, I could not imagine that her shape could have been any more attractive then than it was at that moment. Any complete image of her necessarily included the two small architects of that current shape. Her daughters, ages two and five, had a manner and awareness that were a direct reflection of the degree of gentle understanding, informed care, and patient consideration that their mother provided during their upbringing.

Below her breasts her arms, hanging straight from her sides but bent at the elbow, extended from her narrow waist to grasp the edge of the desk in front of us. As she continued to read she slowly, unconsciously extended her right hand. She flexed her short, tapered fingers and touched a part of the word processor. Her hands were white, but her closely trimmed, unpolished fingernails had a healthy pink glow to them. Her touch was tentative and still seemed to be without conscious volition, as if her body simply desired to be in more direct contact with the child now being born of our weeks of labor. Somehow, life seemed to flow between her and the machine as she read from our essay about the long–suffering Penelope “sitting, rocking, heeding knocking” while husband Ulysses “cut the glittering wave” in search of fame and adventure. Before me was a hero reminiscent of Penelope, attending to domestic necessities while others in her life sought fleeting fame, fortune, or fun.

I was brought out of my reverie, and could barely suppress a chuckle, when she read a line inspired by one of the extended metaphors she had identified in Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s “Ulysses.” She pointed out that Ulysses spent a great deal of time “beating his chest.” The thought of that action being performed on the small, proud, intensely feminine form before me was at once humorous and grave, for the independence and strength betrayed by her posture left no doubt that, when her time came, she would beat her chest with as much pride and with greater accomplishment than the great Ulysses.

Writing has always been an intensely personal thing for me. Never before had I opened the door of that particular chamber of my life to any outsider. Recent changes in our lives and circumstances make it unlikely that we will be able to repeat that singular experience, yet the offspring we created lives on. It is a glorious reminder of that moment and the person who made it all so special.

-- RonRisley - 10 Feb 1989