Trepidation defines me on many levels, all associated with her.

I don’t think the process was gradual, rather, a rippling effect, like the shock waves of creation, and she, of course, is the source. That’s been the case since that instant during that almost-long-ago Spring when she burst into my consciousness, teasing at possibilities dressed as probabilities but promising nothing and delivering less, infecting everything around me with a virus tinged in rainbows and moonbeams, echoes of idyllic potential if only I could cultivate enough patience. And of course, as viruses are wont to do, it’s spread.

Antibodies generate but fade to insignificance whenever she’s with me; actually, even when she’s just on the phone with me. I wonder if she realizes she has their number. I suspect she does and that she knows too well just what she’s doing. I just wonder at why she does it. Is there anything really there or is it just a game, or is it just a bookmark on one of many possible options. The latter has the dulcet albeit bitter ring of truth.

Then I wonder why I’m still playing this awkward game. It’s as though I’m caught in a gravity well she turns on and off: on whenever she wants to, off when, bored or otherwise disinterested, she’s focused on something else and the prisoner within me scrambles to put into play the varied escape schemes invented during brief lucid intervals. Those intervals may be growing and perhaps, on rare occasions, joining with others. But trepidation’s shadow springs from recesses hidden within and asks: “are you so sure you’re suspicions are right?” And, caught unawares, I have no answers.

As I said: “Trepidation defines me on many levels, all associated with her.”

© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2013; all rights reserved