That’s where this book comes in. For months, I waffled about letting you read the journals and letters I wrote in the spring. So many times I could have given them to you. I almost gave you the entire collection when you went to England. I was so desperate for you to have a piece of me with you, but every time I imagined you reading them, my mind would wander back to that day when Patty showed me my grandfather’s letters, the pages yellowed with age and smudged from years of reading and rereading. How could I possibly give you a collection of love letters as a PDF file? To do that seemed entirely dispassionate.
In the end, I held off, revealing only those early journal entries. The summer went by with the question constantly plaguing me: Is now the right time? How about now?
I finally made the decision after our return from England. That trip convinced me once and for all that you are the one I’m meant to be with. Forever. On Labor Day weekend when we went boating, and I hinted at our future together, your wonderful reaction led me to believe that you’d accept a proposal. At first, I thought that might be an appropriate time to share the letters with you, but I was reluctant to put pressure on you by giving them to you at that point. And so I decided to wait, giving them to you after I’ve proposed, and you’ve (hopefully) accepted.
While rereading every single word I wrote during those long weeks in the spring, I’ve cringed, laughed, shaken my head and wondered if I’m crazy to let you read them, but at this point, what do I have to hide? You know me, Aubrey, better than anyone else in the world—better than I know myself sometimes.
So here I sit, holding a pile of typed pages, but tomorrow I’ll take these pages in to be bound into a book, my gift to you—The Record of My Heart.
You may wonder how I landed on this title. It actually came to me as I mulled over what passage to use as an epigraph. I wanted to choose something meaningful to inscribe on the opening page, some words to express not just the purpose of this book, but also the very essence of the many, many words within. I pored over the book of love letters my grandmother gave me and scanned volume after volume of poetry. And then, this afternoon, once you’d left for the theater, I was sitting in the bedroom and I saw that book on the shelf—the one you bought me back in May—Tagore’s The Gardener. I flipped through it, and within a few minutes, the perfect passage revealed itself, a selection of lines from Verse 16:
“Hands cling to hands and eyes linger on eyes: thus begins the record of our hearts…
…It is a game of giving and withholding, revealing and screening again; some smiles and some little shyness, and some sweet useless struggles…
…No mystery beyond the present; no striving for the impossible; no shadow Behind the charm; no groping in the depth of the dark…
…It is enough what we give and get…
…This love between you and me is simple as a song.”
This passage is perfect—most appropriate, given that this book chronicles the stirrings of my heart from the moment I set eyes on you. In all honesty, the entire verse captures the way I feel about you and about our love. We’ve had our fair share of struggles, but we always return to each other. That’s all there is, Aubrey. You and me—the joy you bring to my life, a joy which I hope I’m able to return tenfold.
That’s all there needs to be.
On the way home from Brad and Penny’s last night, I told you how completely blessed and whole I feel having your love, light, and laughter in my life, and you blamed my sappiness on the drinks I’d consumed. Believe me, Aubrey, I would proclaim the same words without an ounce of alcohol in my blood, as in fact, I do, here and now. Whether sober, tipsy, or drunk as a skunk, I’m yours, for as long as you’ll have me. I hope that’s a very, very long time.
You’ve mentioned a couple of times that you hope you’re as feisty as Patty when you’re eighty. I hope you are, too. And I pray I’m beside you, holding your hand, seeing your eighty-year-old feistiness with my own eyes—eyes which will look at you adoringly for as long as I live. If you say you’ll be mine forever, I will try my utmost to make this a reality.
I will close there, for what else is there to say? I love you, and I look forward to asking for your hand in twelve days.
Adoringly yours,
Daniel
xoxoxo…
Thursday, November 12
Hi, sweetheart,
I’m in my hotel room, pen in hand, awake far too early again. In an hour or so, I’ll be in a taxi, heading for the airport. Finally! I can’t wait to get home. I’ve learned a lot and had a great time out here. BC is beautiful and the symposium was incredibly energizing, but you’ve never been far from my thoughts.
I’m glad I left a couple of blank pages at the end of this book. There’s something else I feel compelled to add which I know will make you smile—a postscript of a sort, I suppose. A few weeks ago, you said you’ve missed me channeling Dr. Seuss, so imagine me in my hotel room last night, writing this poem—something else to add to the short anthology of horrid verse documenting the times we’ve been apart. (More and more, I realize it’s best if you never leave my side.) Without further ado…
An Ode to Aubrey Price on the Eve of Friday the Thirteenth
I miss your eyes and eyelash flutter
I crave your mess; I miss your clutter
I miss your lips and breathy kisses
A drool-soaked shirt, my chest most misses.
I miss your hands, our fingers twined
(Your nails are also on my mind…)
I miss your legs; I miss your arms
I miss your soft, sweet nether-charms.
I miss your voice, your crazy jokes
Your puckered brows and sharp rib pokes.
I miss your cheeks, your ears, your nose
I even miss your frigid toes!
I miss your presence in a room
Your antics always lift the gloom.
I miss you, but I feel you near
’Cause Thursday, well, it’s almost here
And Friday night we’ll celebrate
Nine months together—(I can’t wait).
November’s chill will fill the air
I’ll keep you close and we won’t care.
We’ll hug and kiss, we’ll dance and dine
And all I’ve missed will then be mine.
So when you wake on Friday morning
Please remember this small warning:
On Friday night, there’ll be no slumber
’Cause thirteen is my lucky number.
Wretched, right? But it had to be done. Okay. It’s time. Close the book, my lovely. Close the book, and we’ll start a new one together. I look forward to filling endless blank pages with you.
Yours, with infinite love and an insufferably romantic affection,
Daniel
xoxoxo…
P.S. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve written “xoxoxo…” over the months in notes, emails, text messages, and now here, in these letters. I’ve never meant that “dot, dot, dot” more than I do at this very moment.
I love you.
Acknowledgments
A heartfelt thanks to the Omnific family, my #streetteam, my fabulous friends and wonderful family. Most importantly, to my readers, without whom this journey would not have been nearly as fun. Thank you.
~GG
About the Author
Georgina Guthrie is a self-professed book hugger and compulsive diarist. Though GG now resides in Canada, she was born across the pond and still considers herself a Brit through and through, which may explain her frequent visits to her favorite local British import shop.
GG is often happiest when reading and writing, but she’s just as likely to be found hanging out with friends and family, almost certainly with a glass of red wine in one hand a bag of cheese and onion crisps in the other.
Join Georgina on Twitter @georgey_girl
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(Words #3.5)
The Record of My Heart (Words #3.5) Page 11
