Equivocality

Sweet Summer Child

I idly glance at the ceiling, fiddling with a pen as I sat at my desk, a frown present on my face. My eyes fall onto the empty piece of paper in front of me, as I've began chewing at the end of my writing instrument. It was hot and sunny outside, with people swarming the market in search of a myriad of goods. Birds singing, children playing; after many months, I could finally say that the town was alive. But I did not have time for that, oh no. The louvers were covering the windows fully, allowing but a dim light to enter my room. It was all I needed. Peace and quiet, tranquility and balance. I couldn't think if I was distracted and I was already out of ideas. And I haven't even started.

"Why is it so hard? You wrote about so many things and now you have a blockage? Especially when you are writing about her?" my mind suddenly bellowed, almost as if it was upset on myself. Actually, I was upset on myself. I was actually gritting my teeth, digging them deep into that poor pen. A sigh escaped my cracked lips as I twisted the pen in my fingers, finally placing the ballpoint on the paper. I stood there for a few good moments that felt like an eternity, but then I started writing:

I wish you the happiest of birthdays! You are finally eighteen, girl. Damn.

"No." I murmured to myself, immediately drawing a horizontal line over what I wrote. "What am I? Some sort of barbarian? An illiterate? How did I even think of writing that?" my hands then suddenly reached to grab the paper, make it into a ball and throw it into the trash. I grabbed another paper, a clean one, and placed it onto my desk, staring at it blankly, as if waiting for the unfortunate tree to whisper me about what I should write. But it didn't, as expected. I had to rely on myself. Well, on myself and her. That gorgeous girl.

It was really hard, and to this day I don't understand why. I'm simply flabbergasted. Why couldn't I write something worthwhile about her? There were so many things I could put on paper. I could find an endless list of qualities, of why I like her, of why I wanted her to have the happiest and most amazing of birthdays. But I simply couldn't. Something kept me there, in place. Was it the fact that she finally turned eighteen? That she ascended to another level in her life? And why would that even be relevant? She'll always that same girl I fell for years ago. She'll always be nestled deep in my heart. It matters not if she turns eighteen. It won't change my image about her, not even by the slightest.

Oh, and what an image. It's not as if I saw perfection in her. It's not as if I compared every single girl with her and found no resemblance. It's not as if I loved every single atom of her being since the first time I laid my gaze upon her form. Not only because of those gorgeous, brown eyes. Or that long, silken hair that I could caress all day. Or that smile of hers that I was longing to see. It wasn't even because I loved short girls. No. It was simply everything about her. From head to toe, from her personality to her secrets that I slowly discovered across the years. But then again, some feelings simply can't be put down on paper.

The gift was ready. It stood there, on my bed, awaiting for it to be opened. An album. Something very meaningful to me. Why? Because, two winters ago, that was her gift to me. An album. Something I disregarded at that time, even though I liked it, yet now I sleep with it near my bed. I open it from time to time and I close it with a melancholic smile on my face. But I wanted to give her something more; I wanted to give her a part of myself, as if I haven't done that already. Something even more meaningful than pictures. Something that she's reading right now, hopefully with a smile on her face and maybe a tear or two in her eyes.

I'm wandering off right now. This is about her and only her. It's her birthday. She's going to be eighteen. And I still haven't written anything down. Or have I?... As I glance down, three papers are filled with words, words nurtured and then spewed out from the depths of my heart. I didn't even realize how they got there. But I was happy that they did. I was happy that I managed to write something to her; something meaningful. Something that I hope she'll keep, or at least remember. Because, that's really my intention. To leave something positive in her life. To repay her everything that she gave me. To teach her something in exchange of what she taught me. And she taught me a lot of things. She taught me to be better. She taught me to behave. She taught me that true friends exist. And above everything else, she taught me to love.

It's been a bumpy ride. With ups and downs. With great moments and sad ones. Tears were shed, regrets were had, memories were shared, friends were made. We bonded. And thanks to the Cosmic inhabitants, this ride is not yet over. And it won't be over a long time from now. You're turning eighteen, and with that, a milestone is reached in your life. And I can't be anything but happy that I get to spend this moment with you. That I get to sit here, besides you, as you read this wall of text and is seeping with emotions. I'm glad I've met you. I wouldn't change anything. Well, aside a few things I was too dumb to notice.

Got this far with writing, and my eyes are already teary. But it's all fine. And it's all worth. Every salty droplet. I'm really glad. Glad that you exist, that you are here with me. That you make me smile and that I do the same to you. I'm glad that I can be the first one wishing you a hearty HAPPY BIRTHDAY. I'm glad that I can watch you read this all. I'm glad that I can see you browse through that album. I am glad that I had the privilege of meeting you, you beautiful being. I endorse everything that you represent, and you know that well. I wish only the best for you, you sweet summer child. Your happiness is my happiness.