Glance of a lifetime

I spent most of that summer sleeping on trains. I learned to sleep in any position and through screaming children with harried parents, drunk young people as well as loud conversations I mostly couldn't understand.

At that moment, however, there was none of that background noise. It was a night train and everyone was sleeping or at least quiet. It was a whispering voice that awakened me.

Tú.

I opened my eyes, startled. The seats that had been empty when I fell asleep, were no longer. A man shackled both hand and foot was in front of me. Next to him and me were men in blue uniforms with bulges clearly delineating weapons within easy reach.

They were both deeply asleep, chins buried in their chests. But his eyes, a beautiful brown with flecks of swirling green and gold, were wide open.

Tú.

His mouth never moved, but I heard him call to me.

A warmth spread through me as something inside me recognized him.

You.

For as long as I can remember, I have felt emptiness, a feeling that a piece of me was missing. When our eyes met, I felt peace.

Then I was sitting in a café in Salamanca, writing page after page of existential reflections woven through a critical analysis of works by Azorín.

Puedo sentarme aquí?

The café-bar was full to bursting with loud college students on their way to louder drunkenness. I had been sitting in my window seat for hours and was just reaching a key argument in my paper so I was inclined to just say, no, I'm sorry, without looking up.

But I looked up. Soft brown eyes with flecks of green and gold smiled down at me. I took my bag off the empty chair and stuffed my papers and books inside.

An hour later we were walking the streets, looking for someplace a little quieter. Found, we played a game of chess while drinking Rioja at a table under the stars. We played, we talked, we drank, we fell in love.

Around one in the morning, he took my hand as we walked by the river. We sat on a bench, listening to the water, to the silence, the sounds of our hearts pounding in our ears. We held hands in silence for hours, butterflies running rampant.

Mía.

Mine.

He walked me to my hotel and kissed my forehead.

Before a month had passed, he came to my room. We had spent another evening by the water holding hands. That night, we kissed. First, a soft feathery kiss, then he licked my lips and they parted, welcoming. I melted in his arms, liquid warmth pooling low. We kissed for hours, first standing against the door then laying on my bed, bodies entwined, pressed close. Wanting.

We were married by Christmas. He moved to New York with me and got a job teaching at Columbia. I finished my doctorate a few months before our first son was born. Within six years, we had moved to the suburbs and had three boys. They all had their daddy's eyes. It was a loud house and a happy home full of love and laughter.

Of course, time passes. They grew up as children do. The youngest married first, his high school sweetheart. The eldest was next, marrying a colleague from work. Our middle child took his time, but love found him, eventually. Our hearts were full as they all built their own joy- and love-filled homes.

We retired when I was 55 and he was 62. Over the next twenty years, we traveled the world, played with our grandchildren and spent hours weeding our flower beds. Indeed, he was in the garden when I felt something was wrong. I ran outside and found him lying in the freshly turned dirt.

I ran over.

Querida…

Darling…

He grabbed my hand, grip strong though he was dying. His eyes pierced mine and I heard him say

Te quiero, vida mía, cuánto te quiero.

I was still staring into his eyes, tears of grief pouring from mine, when the officers pulled him up to take him off the train.