To The One I Have Given My Heart

Our story is one of many ages.

He, sitting there, day in and day out, perched upon the lacquered wooden chair in the living room, just waiting. Me, blindly scampering around, being my “own woman”.

The French couple would praise him and Didac would swear to his goodness and true strength of character. Liath would encourage an interaction, claiming that he was perfect for me. 

But I….no, I was my own woman, thank you very much. I could bloody well feed and clothe myself, and I could certainly keep myself warm.

I didn’t need him.

But yet. He sat there, perched upon the lacquered wooden chair, day in and day out. Just waiting. Because he knew that in due time I would realize my need for him. My desire. 

It happened Saturday night. The night that will forever live in infamy as the first time I had truly felt the brimming and full capacity of love. Its transformative power. How it opens us up to vulnerability and to growth. 

Perhaps that’s what I am most thankful to him for. Teaching me how to be vulnerable. Teaching me that it’s…okay–maybe even necessary–to ask for help. 

It was a cold and quite frosty Scottish night.

The French couple were sauntering off to the caravan for the night. I watched their slow and deliberate movements, the bright moon throwing chilly silhouettes against the the sprinkled, dewy grass.

Didac had long gone to the cabin with his constant Newfie companion, Flo, and I was beginning to feel the lull towards sleep myself. 

We were alone. It was just me and him left in the living room. I had the last gulp cup of steaming tea and a chapter left of Dracula; he was sitting, perched upon the lacquered wooden chair, waiting.

As I finished both my tea and the book, I glanced out at the night again, and subconsciously shivered. 

It’s cold out there, tonight, I thought to myself. I glanced over at the wooden chair and saw him nod. 

I looked around the room, cautious, vulnerable, closed. Suddenly the chill of the room and the desperate pounding of sleep became overwhelming, and in a rush of intense emotion, I threw my tea to the side of the room and welcomed him in with open arms. 

He had known that one night I would find my way into his arms. We spent the next nights together, tucked into the layers of cabin sheets and fighting the blustering cold Scottish nights. 

Life changed for me after that.

No longer did I feel the chasms of chill and dank working their way into my joints and soul. I now had…him. My companion. My strength. The reason to go to sleep at night. 

We went everywhere together; we would spread out a picnic blanket against a stone wall down by the beach after a long day’s work and drink Scottish pale ale together, watching the tide come in along the firth, the sun on our faces. 

He taught me how to accept help. How to ask for warmth.

He gave me the world, and he didn’t ask for anything in return. 

I’ve never felt love like this before, never felt that need for something so strongly, that I feel I might die if not encased in him. I know that soon I must leave Scotland and return to Austria–O, tumultuous fate!–and we must be parted. And when that dreaded time comes, I hope that we will be able to look upon our interactions and intimacy with the seasoned gratitude that life so often bestows upon the traveler. 

And when our departure comes, the only hope I can cling to is the hope that I will be able to love again, as I love now. 

Of course, I am referring to a hot water bottle.

Peace and Blessings,

Josie

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