Spiritual Marriage

Waking up to the cool breeze on the last day of summer. I can almost feel it in the air, the joy ,the happiness of the unexpected Sunday. 6 A.M. I creep my way to the shower with one slipper on and the other foot bare . No need to flush the toilet this morning . Shower water is unexpectedly hot. I lavish myself with body wash and wash away all my sins. As I step out, I clear the fogged square mirror with my fingers. I look at myself. I stare deep into my own eyes. I want to see what she sees. I want to feel what she feels.

I disappear from the mirror and begin to get dressed. I turn on the blue Christmas lights that decorate my room and I walk around clothes and other miscellaneous things that linger on my wooden floor . For once I don’t hesitate. Skin tight blue jeans, with tie dye Vans, and a jean vest. I bun up my hair and lightly put my face on with makeup. Leave my house in exchange for some city air.

M bound to 5th Ave. I don’t mind standing up , even in an empty train cart. To be honest, I rather dangerously lean against the subway doors and let my eyes and mind get lost behind the windows. “Stand clear of the closing doors Please.” Time is up.

It’s finally time to see her. To feel her. To touch her.  I see her from a distance standing there in a mustard color sweater. I have tunnel vision. I never want it to go away.  The way she carries herself, the way her hair falls onto her face, as if she’s frightened to let the world see her. She can’t see me, she can’t feel my heart race for her . The momentary desire I have to hold her. To kiss her.  I slowly gaze toward her as she continues to search for me. She finally spots me. I hug her, and I never want her to notice how I involuntarily inhale her scent.

We grab hands and begin to explore Union Square. My favorite place. It’s filled with unexpected excitement from individuals who aren’t afraid to express true color. The feeling of peace and love circulate the city air. We make our way down 8th street gazing through the shops. We come across two oval moon rings, one hazy white one and the other with a tint of coral. They fit perfect. The seller of the rings was a Bengali man with belief. A man who didn’t judge. He had a soul that understood .

Walking towards the flower shop, I buy one single sunflower and refuse to let the florist wrap it. Every bride needs a bouquet, right? I hand it to her. I can sense the aura of happiness around her . “Do you think the Bengali man will marry us?” I ask . I take out my brown leather journal and turn to the last page. I hand it to her. “It’s time to write our vows “.

We cross the street and hand the journal to the Bengali man. “You are going to marry us , can you read this?” she asks. He looked at us with a smile of confusion . He begins to read the page stumbling on every other word. There we stand in his cluttered outside shop.  It’s filled with hats and necklaces dangling from above. Bengali music on low playing in the background and the sound of footsteps as strangers walking up and down the village streets.

The man pauses,  leaving us but taking the journal with him to help a customer. There I was with a feeling I have never felt before. I stare at her intentionally engaging eye contact. I begin to think about the fogged mirror. She unlocks all four chambers of my heart. I can see what she sees. I can feel what she feels. I wouldn’t trade the last day of summer for the first day of fall.

The man comes back with the last line. “I do.” she says. I gently lean in towards her, pressing my lips against hers, and for the first time in my life I was exactly where I was supposed to be .

Marissa Amaya
Marissa Amaya

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