Before I forget, I need to get this down. There was a challenge to describe how falling in love awakens all five senses. It reminded me, how my senses stir memories of specific episodes of falling in love. Cart-horse.
Early this morning, I told Clutch we’d go hunting. He’s been running ruts in the yard back and forth between the barn and the side door. The old man loves to hunt. Rather hunt than eat. No, can’t go that far. He’ll wait though. I’m gonna put these thoughts down.
Five senses and love? Sure! Sometimes, some things sneak up on me when I’m doing some other ‘necessary’ thing. When I’m not paying attention to what my nose and ears are doing, what I’ve got pinched between callouses, which direction my eyes have wandered, or the spike of timothy I’m chewing. These things gently pull me from now, and put me mind and soul falling in love again…
Watching a well-restored old car tooling streets in town. My ’64 Impala SS. Or the ’66 Fairlane Bob Newberry drove. It’s not always the same automobile. It could be a flock of geese circling to remember how to form a vee before heading south. Maybe a pretty woman reminding me of… Oh, never mind. Maybe twinkling stars, yeah, we can talk about that.
Hearing an old song. Not always the same song. Not always romantic, dance-close music. Beatles, Dylan, Darin, doesn’t matter. Maybe hear a baby cry. Or the first bawl of a newborn calf. A woman’s voice, smooth, smoky, a bit deep, and excited.
Catching a whiff of perfume similar to that I recall years ago, or hairspray. Do ladies even use hairspray anymore? Burning leaves conjuring-up jittery nerves before homecoming football against archrival Justinberg and the dance after. The old leather and sweat permeating the stable when I put away Metaphor and Bo Jangles. Or new mown hay, or air threatening snow.
Savoring a long swallow of cider. Or when I’ve a mind, an almost frozen beer from a six pack a buddy just happened to bring with him stopping by in the afternoon. Beer and the taste of lipstick?
Enjoying the startling touch of fine silk when a woman’s chest accidentally brushes against me. Or the softness of a woman’s hand when she’s a trifle careless making change, or when her fingertips tickle my forearm ‘by mistake.’
When these things happen, I remember specific times falling in love. That doesn’t describe falling in love. But it tells you how falling in love affects you, makes you associate certain things with the happy event – and oh yes, it’s always happy – years and years ago, today, and every morning.
Why different memories? Why not always seeing the same car? A brief drift of the same cologne? The caress of a particular silky fabric? The melody of one song? The tart snap of that one autumn apple? Because I’ve fallen in love more than once. I’m lucky. Many times. Always happily. Falling out of love, not so much.
Here’s the deal. Sometimes I was the one who lost the spark. Usually the lady, but not always. And not, as the poets would have you believe, always sad, tragic and the end of meaningful life. Not bittersweet because I’m looking back either. No. Learned something every time. Grew some. I think, I hope, a lady or two along the way learned a thing or two from me. With me. Can’t tell. Can’t ask. Won’t. I dunno. Some, you know, I still wonder. Gentleman can’t risk ruining the settled state a lady embraces now, after breaking someone or being broken all those years ago.
You betcha, falling out of love hurt. Terribly, especially when you were abruptly tossed aside. Looking back if it were mine to do again would I, even terrible times I thought it was all over? Same me? Same she? Knowing what I know now? Sure. Know that for a fact because still sometimes I fall in love with those ladies again. A little bit. For a little while.
Happens every time one of those senses are pricked. A cup of coffee so perfectly prepared you enjoy sight, smell, taste, touch, and hearing as the pot rumbles the last dribbles of water into the carafe. Like love, all the senses, all at once, overpowering, nearly debilitating.
An old car can do that. That ’64 Impala hardtop. Powder blue bucket seats. The smell of oil and gasoline. Boy could that 327 drink gasoline; but oh, that throaty rumble! The fresh snap of autumn air cruising the highway. The feel of the wheel in my hands. And oh, yes, where a lady and I fell into, and out of love with each other. More than one. Love. Not lust. Why not? We were young!
That’s all I wanted to say. Don’t need the rifle. Not that kind of hunting. Clutch knows. Open our eyes to moving shadows. Listen for broken silence. Smell something not us. Feel the cool air. Taste resolution. Maybe the memory of falling in love will sneak up on us. That’s still falling in love. All over again. Didn’t say it was easier, just doesn’t hurt as much.
Oh. No, I’m not entering any contest. Not fair. Probably read some early entries by folks I know to be pretty damned good with words. Some new faces too, folks who sing words a bit different, make my head hurt. In a good way. But I had to get this down.
Now. I’m going outside to wrestle some serious decisions. Put Whisper under the saddle. Clutch and Whisper are good talkers. Better listeners. They’ll help me sort things out. Animals do that.
Whisper? Metaphor and Bo Jangles are not around anymore. Life. And death. Make an afternoon of it. Lots to see. And smell and hear. Touch? Taste? Dunno. I’ll be surprised if it happens. Ain’t looking for it, though. Got serious thinking to do.
See you in a bit. Maybe.
© SP Wilcenski 2020
Originally Posted to Prose 6/1/2020