Friday's Whims of the Time Traveler 35.1: May 9th, 2010
"Caramel Kisses" is an unfinished novel I began to write back in 2009 and stopped working on in 2010. The two main characters - Adriana Maguire Reynard and Emma Burking - would ultimately be revised for my later completed novella, "The Liffey Is Half-Asleep," in 2011. Several elements of "Liffey" can be found in their original forms in "Caramel Kisses," such as the characters' names, the haiku scene, and Adriana's penchant for writing.
Because of its influence on my later writing, I figured that this story, though incomplete, was worth sharing.
Caramel Kisses: Chapter Twenty-One
My dearest Emma,
By the time you read this letter, I will most likely be waiting at the altar, wearing my tuxedo and my polished shoes and my little boutonniere, a white rose just like we decided on. And yes, I will be wearing the red vest, not the blue one, just as you requested earlier. But if you are reading this by then, that’s good. I wouldn’t want you to read it any other time, for that would prove to be a bit overwhelming.
Emma, you know as much as I do how much I love you, and how much I want to marry you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, to be your groom, and your partner or husband or wife or whatever you want to call me, to be a parent to your child. I want to be your teacher and your student, your poet and your realist. Anything you ask for, I will readily give in a heartbeat, no matter how people look at me, or how they judge, because it won’t matter to me. I couldn’t care less about that.
That’s why I want to also say that if you feel like you cannot find it in your heart to truly follow through with this wedding, then for the love of God, do not walk down that aisle. There is nothing worse than a weak vow, or a hesitant yes, for it can only lead to heartbreak. My love is so strong for you that I would even see you walk away from me, because if it is what makes you happy, then I will try to make it so I am happy as well. I know, sounds like I’m over exaggerating, but I’m being honest. I could not see you unhappy if you were with me and didn’t really think it was how it should be.
We have known each other for more than a year now, a pretty brief time for us to marry judging other couples’ experiences. But I proposed to you because you have allowed me to see past the drama. You have allowed me to see past the construct, like the world is a story I must write. You are the poet, and I am the words. You have created me, and I feel like no matter how long we may have stayed together before I brought out the ring, I think I would never have changed my mind in the long run.
What I want you to remember most of all, Emma, is that regardless of race, ethnic identity, economic standing, or Hell, even sexual orientation – this will not be easy. Love is not easy. We will have our low points, but they will be countered by the happiest of days. We will argue, we will question, and we will wonder, but we will love. Love is difficult, but prosperous. Love is angry, but kind. A love that can last through trial is a love worth keeping, and I have faith that our love can outlast any storm.
But enough tired clichés from me; it’s obviously not becoming of my writing niche, is it? Anyway, I stand by what I have said earlier, that I want you only to walk down that aisle if it is truly what you want. And no matter what you choose, no matter what you decide, whether to link arms with your father as he leads you to me on the other side or to turn around and walk away with the veil flowing behind you…no matter what, I will be waiting at the end of the aisle. I will always be waiting at the end of the aisle.
I love you with all my heart and all my mind and all my soul, and I hope to say “I do” to you once the ceremony starts.
Your groom and your king,
Adriana Maguire Reynard
***
I wrote that letter the night before our wedding. I handed it to her father the morning of. She looked beautiful in all that white. The gown was simple, but becoming of her figure. Her auburn hair was gold in the light of the stained glass windows of the Episcopalian church. I told her father not to give it to her until the moment was right.
Hudd was outside in the San Francisco air when I saw him, and he offered me a cigar. I accepted it even though it had been two years since I had touched a cigarette. But it was a special occasion, and we smoked together, reminiscing on our work together, especially since my play was now a regional success being performed in four cities around the bay area. Hudd had fumbled with his best man speech, scribbled out on binder paper with a mechanical pencil. He almost asked me to critique it, but I blew smoke to obstruct the words and told him not to spoil it for me. Besides, I already had an idea about what it said, and I wondered, grinning, if he had needed to stop himself from adding the line, “And thanks for the material and the paychecks!”
And I waited at the end of the aisle. I waited for Emma to finish my letter. Oh God she was beautiful. She had always been beautiful. She would always be beautiful. No matter what she chose.
The May sunlight heated up the glass above our heads and almost crafted us halos. I heard the whistle of bows across violins and cellos, the string ensemble beginning to play again after the obligatory momentary silence as the last of the typical bridesmaids and groomsmen disappeared from the plush red carpeting between the pews. My parents and my brother cast me a look as the song played, as if appalled that any besides the standard was touched upon. But I didn’t notice. I couldn’t notice.
This was the bride’s song. And I felt the warmth growing inside my chest, that good old feeling of heat that had accompanied me for so long, as the silhouette of my Elven queen emerged with her father beside her, her veil a replacement for a crown of laurels as she set her glistening, melted eyes upon my visage and mouthed words not belonging to the vows as she overcame the distance between us.
It was not I do. It was not I love you. It was I chose.
I chose.
I chose.
The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since May 9th, 2010.
Because of its influence on my later writing, I figured that this story, though incomplete, was worth sharing.
Caramel Kisses: Chapter Twenty-One
by Belinda Roddie
My dearest Emma,
By the time you read this letter, I will most likely be waiting at the altar, wearing my tuxedo and my polished shoes and my little boutonniere, a white rose just like we decided on. And yes, I will be wearing the red vest, not the blue one, just as you requested earlier. But if you are reading this by then, that’s good. I wouldn’t want you to read it any other time, for that would prove to be a bit overwhelming.
Emma, you know as much as I do how much I love you, and how much I want to marry you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, to be your groom, and your partner or husband or wife or whatever you want to call me, to be a parent to your child. I want to be your teacher and your student, your poet and your realist. Anything you ask for, I will readily give in a heartbeat, no matter how people look at me, or how they judge, because it won’t matter to me. I couldn’t care less about that.
That’s why I want to also say that if you feel like you cannot find it in your heart to truly follow through with this wedding, then for the love of God, do not walk down that aisle. There is nothing worse than a weak vow, or a hesitant yes, for it can only lead to heartbreak. My love is so strong for you that I would even see you walk away from me, because if it is what makes you happy, then I will try to make it so I am happy as well. I know, sounds like I’m over exaggerating, but I’m being honest. I could not see you unhappy if you were with me and didn’t really think it was how it should be.
We have known each other for more than a year now, a pretty brief time for us to marry judging other couples’ experiences. But I proposed to you because you have allowed me to see past the drama. You have allowed me to see past the construct, like the world is a story I must write. You are the poet, and I am the words. You have created me, and I feel like no matter how long we may have stayed together before I brought out the ring, I think I would never have changed my mind in the long run.
What I want you to remember most of all, Emma, is that regardless of race, ethnic identity, economic standing, or Hell, even sexual orientation – this will not be easy. Love is not easy. We will have our low points, but they will be countered by the happiest of days. We will argue, we will question, and we will wonder, but we will love. Love is difficult, but prosperous. Love is angry, but kind. A love that can last through trial is a love worth keeping, and I have faith that our love can outlast any storm.
But enough tired clichés from me; it’s obviously not becoming of my writing niche, is it? Anyway, I stand by what I have said earlier, that I want you only to walk down that aisle if it is truly what you want. And no matter what you choose, no matter what you decide, whether to link arms with your father as he leads you to me on the other side or to turn around and walk away with the veil flowing behind you…no matter what, I will be waiting at the end of the aisle. I will always be waiting at the end of the aisle.
I love you with all my heart and all my mind and all my soul, and I hope to say “I do” to you once the ceremony starts.
Your groom and your king,
Adriana Maguire Reynard
***
I wrote that letter the night before our wedding. I handed it to her father the morning of. She looked beautiful in all that white. The gown was simple, but becoming of her figure. Her auburn hair was gold in the light of the stained glass windows of the Episcopalian church. I told her father not to give it to her until the moment was right.
Hudd was outside in the San Francisco air when I saw him, and he offered me a cigar. I accepted it even though it had been two years since I had touched a cigarette. But it was a special occasion, and we smoked together, reminiscing on our work together, especially since my play was now a regional success being performed in four cities around the bay area. Hudd had fumbled with his best man speech, scribbled out on binder paper with a mechanical pencil. He almost asked me to critique it, but I blew smoke to obstruct the words and told him not to spoil it for me. Besides, I already had an idea about what it said, and I wondered, grinning, if he had needed to stop himself from adding the line, “And thanks for the material and the paychecks!”
And I waited at the end of the aisle. I waited for Emma to finish my letter. Oh God she was beautiful. She had always been beautiful. She would always be beautiful. No matter what she chose.
The May sunlight heated up the glass above our heads and almost crafted us halos. I heard the whistle of bows across violins and cellos, the string ensemble beginning to play again after the obligatory momentary silence as the last of the typical bridesmaids and groomsmen disappeared from the plush red carpeting between the pews. My parents and my brother cast me a look as the song played, as if appalled that any besides the standard was touched upon. But I didn’t notice. I couldn’t notice.
This was the bride’s song. And I felt the warmth growing inside my chest, that good old feeling of heat that had accompanied me for so long, as the silhouette of my Elven queen emerged with her father beside her, her veil a replacement for a crown of laurels as she set her glistening, melted eyes upon my visage and mouthed words not belonging to the vows as she overcame the distance between us.
It was not I do. It was not I love you. It was I chose.
I chose.
I chose.
The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since May 9th, 2010.
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