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At first I thought, "what to give Cathy that best describes our love?" I was holding books of poetry, books of philosophy, great French novels by Mallarme, the works of Shakespeare, Voltaire, Aristotle. What is more romantic than "Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged!/Give me my sin again. [They kiss]?" However, nothing seemed to do.
Shakespeare was too trite. No, there's nothing contrived about the love Cathy and I share, indeed. Every second, every instance, it's as though a new world were created for us-- new seas, a new sun overhead burning. Shakespeare's eyes, I say, have never beheld anything this pure; the world has never seen anything this perfect in all of its million years.
Philosophy--not Aristotle, nor Plato--they could not account for us, for the marriage of these two hearts. Nowhere in the mind does the capacity exist, not in imagination, not in the all of this simple world, to comprehend the magnitude of light, of heat, of purity that our two hearts have borne. Aristotle were better to have been mute, Plato blind, than to have tried to put forth the words that describe this love.
Ahhh, but what of the French? Surely they, who have spent centuries defining love, giving it shape, form, putting it down on paper, poems, speech, art, surely something would exist in their centuries of trying that could capture the essence of Cathy and I. Surely! But alas, no. Not even close. They have tried, tried, tried, but words, words, words, they have failed. Beautiful things they have produced, written about love, but ultimately insignificant when matched to Cathy's grace.
So, the right gift to send to Cathy was surely difficult to find. So, what to do? Our love is mythic, I concluded. Mythical, yet simple, pure. We love as newborns love the feel of the first gentle spring wind crossing their face. The first taste of a summer cherry touching their tongue. We are enraptured every moment with the splendor of each other's very existence, like children counting shooting stars. It is simple. It is unladen by the exigencies of the world. Free. So what better to give her than a fairy tale? A child's story about a man, far away, desperate to get back to the one he loves?
The champagne glasses are for the drink we've yet to have, but will. The book calls to the past. The glasses call to the future. Our hearts call to the present.
Merry Christmas, my love.
To all of you sucka's trying to front, burn in hell, especially you, Max.