love notes

dear London,

They say love at first sight, but I didn't need to see you to know. I've felt it, lived it, known it nearly my entire life: we're MFEO.

I realise a lot of people say that to you---thousands of people, millions---daily. And why not? You're beautiful. That winding river, silently swifting past the marvels of ages. You're brilliant, the wit and words of centuries at your call. You're fascinating, never wanting for a story antique or contemporary, and you're open, welcoming, kind. For even after all that, you loved me back. You knew me, too. You said Yes, this is what you've been waiting for. Yes, I've been waiting for you, too. And those few months we had together were some of the best, my world transformed; I'm light, I'm quick, I'm joy at your touch.

The day I left you, I watched others' goodbyes from the bus. It was early morning, the shadows long outside the Underground, the sky working up a rainy grey. I watched a father and son, a goodbye with a gift. The father handed a small pot to him, a willowy orchid in full bloom. He patted the soil in, brushed imaginary imperfections from the lean stem. And then he held his boy in a long embrace, a cane to steady his shaking. The son was the last on our bus, clearing the final stair as the coach hissed into gear. I smiled because he looked like you, like the London I so love: British, through and through. He was middle-aged, wiry hair fast receding, with a nubby blue jumper over everyday chinos. I smiled because he held that plastic pot snug to his heart, careful of the flower's long neck and the low-ceilinged coach. I smiled because he wasn't two steps into the bus when his phone rang, which he answered instantly with a cheerful "Dad!"

Yes, I'm on the coach now, he reported. Walking down the aisle. Do you see me? Yes, the plant's lovely, dad. Mum's going to love it. And I'll take good care of it too, promise. It's got a seat all it's own back here---Oh! There you are! Can you see me, dad? Do you see me? Yes, that's it!

I turned, the voice far behind me now. He was standing, still clutching that snowy orchid in one hand, the chunky mobile in the other. But he was waving now, madly, wildly, even as the coach pulled far from Victoria Station and around the corner and out of the city. He sat down then, holding the phone back to his ear. Yes, dad. I love you, too.

I think about him often; about that morning; about leaving you. I cried, you know. But I also thought, How lovely, this gift. I still keep that small seed of True Love you gave me, now blossoming in memory and nurtured care. I'll take good care of it, I promise. It's got a place all it's own, and it--every day---calls me home.

always,

E.