Ciofalo - Upstairs / Downstairs: Making the Transition

Upstairs / Downstairs Making the Transition Andrew Ciofalo Order this book online at www.trafford.com
or email Most Trafford titles are also available at major online book retailers. Copyright 2012 Andrew Ciofalo . All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author. Printed in the United States of America . 01/13/2012 www.trafford.com North America & international toll-free: 1 888 232 4444 (USA & Canada) phone: 250 383 6864 fax: 812 355 4082 Contents To my inspiring wife, Olga Timofeeva, who breathed new life into a muse once thought hopelessly interred under mountains of unmediated facts. Tenant. Tenant.

That is what she called him in her North Carolina kitchensuddenly as cold as February. Money safely defined their transactional relationship leaving other possibilities to be discovered outside of meaning. Friend . That is what she called him when she sensed his expectations approaching heights she dared not climb. Eventually a warm front would make redundant their nightly vodka, and he would leave her house in early April. Forever. Forever.

Before then was the darkness, deeper than the night in which he walked along pathways hidden from Gods intent. He groped to an edge, a shadow of what was to come, a place where hope created light. And there she stood, more than a wish, more than a dream Without her there could be no light, and together their light could fill the world. This was Creation most sublime. Metaphorical messages in illuminated manuscripts give no more meaning to divine destiny than a life well-lived, a love infinitely formed. He accepted that someday he would depart, but she didnt know it would be so soon, so unexpectedly, along bikeways marked by fates intent.

In her memory, he became a distant star shining brightly without warmth, but with laser-like precision to excise the guilt of being left behind. Her light is still there, sometimes veiled in a cloud of Amens and chocolates, sometimes illuminating pages of Russian poetry, but always a beacon to those who idealize her. Let there be light. She stands on the far shore, a place of mystery and wonder, so cold and distant to me that I dare not cross over. From a promontory above the river a mischievous light sends her reflection gliding across the ripples toward me. I heed the warnings of the screaming gulls and teeter on the waters edge like some ancient sailor saved by Orpheus song.

In a moment our reflections are about to embrace but she coyly withdraws denying the water her image. My reflection is dashed upon that distant Siberian shore, lovingly wetting the stones upon which she once stood. The first warm day of March, and Sarahs Garden calls as if to awaken us from the deep winter of our lives. Early flowers reach for the sun, despite tomorrows predicted cold, to celebrate the now of possibility and prepare us for the promise of April. Uncertain of the path ahead I walk carefully, measuring each step, until I see you are not so far ahead that I cannot reach out for support. We shelter for a moment in a covered pavilion where young lovers digitize their memories, but we have brought no cameras, and I am left to embrace anothers dream.

We venture down into the formal plantings And follow rows of camellias, daffodils and winter hazel toward the pond where suspended life waits for spring to break the waters of winters stillness. Have I arrived too soon? Maybe if is sit under this magnolia tree the rustling leaves and fluttering wings will become the soundtrack of new memories, Already you are almost gone up the hill past the summer music hollow approaching the lake where you know a wintering swan awaits your arrival. A specter of my past life escorts you beyond my sight. I long to be your hearts companion, except for the swan resting in bowered rills. I am now at your side; your palliative presence makes me resolute, confident that I can take the upward path with ease prayerful that I will walk again in Sarahs Garden with you. Not to hear you is to be without music.

Not to see you is to be lost in a world without light. Not to touch you is to be trapped inside the shell of my being. Not to breathe you is to be floating in an endless void. Not to drink you is to be drowned in stone. If I must hear must see must touch must breathe must drink, how do I find a way not to love you? We have never met but our lives intersect in the hearts domain. Someday you will meet me and I will bring to you the love of your life, she who has kept you in her heart lo these many years.

When first I met her I could hardly see her face or hear her words; she seemed beyond reach. Then I heard your sad story, and I knew instantly where she was, living in her dreams with you, a place I could not be. But in a selfless act of generosity you released her to come to me. You sensed that I would honor the promise of her love yet unfulfilled. Her easy laugh, her girlishness, her warmth, her smile, her humor, her affection, her openness are your gifts to her that I now share. I thank you for making room in her heart so that I can bring the fullness of love into her life and help her regain a foothold on the journey begun with you.

Your undiminished presence will always be felt in both our hearts. But she is on a new journey with me now; I will take care that she arrives home safely. All who love claim times suspension, an eternal quality that breaches our senses, that tells us we have met before and walked through warps in the celestial plain. In reality I drove down I-85 for five hours, arriving at your doorstep, a weighty tenant on a journey to change his life with help from the diet doctors at Duke. There was that first phone call. Maybe it was the Russian accent, a breathiness, a hint of tragedy that propelled me toward you.

You seemed relieved to finally meet me. One look at me and you knew that the long stairway to your upstairs room was all the protection you would ever need. You helped me unload my car, and then unpacking my bags, being squirted with my cologne, scaring you with my bi-pap mask, watering the plants Who is this woman? I was falling in love. For weeks after that we would talk endlessly. How could this have happened? Perhaps the deceptive comfort of two wounded souls seeing in each other the mutuality of our quests. You a scientist, me a pragmatic journalist fantasizing about impossible encounters in other realms, when the answer was there all along.

I fell in love with the idea of you long before we ever met. Your face has opened to me like a flower seeking the warmth of an early spring sun to bring back feelings that were dormant in the long winter. In your look I realized my own power to bring joy once again into anothers life, and it surges through every neural pathway to make it possible for me to love again. I tremble at the thought of our being together over seasons cascading toward an eternity of endless embraces and gentle caresses. Winter will never be the same. I knew you lived up those stairs that once secured your position high above me.

But flowers on your pillow told a different story now. I could reach your heights if only you would let me. Each morning, as I quietly leave, an upward glance at the closed doors tells me you are still abed alone with my bouquet. O! If only to be an aphid spending the night with you. Today the door was open. Am I dreaming? Will she appear? Piano swells from a Rachmaninoff concerto play inside my brain; Bocelli waits in the wings.