How sweet time feels
when it’s too late
and you don’t have to follow
her swinging hips
all the way into
your dying imagination
(Leonard Cohen)
When it’s too late it is too late for everything.
Too late to tell her how much you love her. How much you loved to see her move between the kitchen table and the stove, from power suit to garden clothes, from the old dressoir to your shared bed – from morning till evening, till morning again…
She’s gone - beyond your calling. Beyond taste, and touch, and smell. What lingers is regret: you should have said this, or done that. You could have done more – could have done things differently.
But you did not -or you could not. It’s the same thing really, in the end. And it did end – and she is gone.
You remember the first time the two of you met. It was a Tuesday morning, in a car park, of all places. You had been late for work. She had dropped some papers. One look at her worried face, her wind-blown hair, those lovely but unpractical shoes and you were lost. You helped her gather her papers. One or two had escaped beyond recovery but she thanked you warmly anyway. She smiled at you and you were lost all over again: twice lost within minutes – beyond recovery: you were worse than those damn papers…
You gathered your courage and asked if you could have her number.
She said:
“No, but we could have a coffee after work, if you want.”
Yes, you didn’t know but she worked at the same office as you did. She was in management, while you were still working your way up to those heights, from your lowly cubicle. She had seen you a few times before, from her office window, when she was already at work and you were late again.
That’s how it started – and you were married six months later. Eight happy years of marriage. No children yet: there was no hurry – they were both still young.
Now, there won’t be children. No presents under Christmas trees, no worrying over bucked teeth, or playground bullying. No future boyfriends or girlfriends to weigh up. No future altogether.
When it’s too late, it is too late for everything – and it doesn’t even matter much how it does or did or will end. It can be a car crash: one moment of inattention while the two of you are returning home from a movie. You are driving, of course. She’s telling you about the lead actor’s crazy ex-wife. You laugh with her, when she reaches the punch line.
Someone crosses a red light. You wake up in the hospital: you’re basically alright – a few broken bones but nothing major. She died in the car, while you were unconscious. You didn’t even feel her warm blood spilling over you, or her dying words, if there were any.
Or it could have been following one of those regular visits to the doctor. Some vague and threatening shadow on an X-ray. A brain tumor or something in the lungs, the heart, kidneys or liver. There are so many ways for a loved one to die. The flesh you love to hold and the mind that lives there are so fragile.
Or maybe you just went mad and fucked someone else’s secretary at work. Some blonde, gum-chewing funny girl. With just enough brains and just enough heart to be interesting and alluring. Unknown flesh, and the old desires, suddenly burning again – beyond reason, beyond vows, beyond love itself.
And when she found out, she didn’t even cry in your presence, or curse you out. She just left – as you knew she would.
When it’s too late, it is too late for everything. For words of love, for forgiveness, for redemption. Broken pieces are just that. You can try to pick them up – but you can’t rearrange them, like the fallen pages of some annual report. You can’t find meaning in shards of bone or ashes. There is no meaning in death and loss.
When it’s too late it is too late for everything.
“Why are you looking so grim.” she asks, entering the living room, still rearranging her hair.
She smells of that new perfume you gave her last month, for your wedding anniversary.
“No reason.” you say, “just thinking.”
“Stop thinking then.” she says.
“I already have.”
“You’ll behave when I’m gone?” she asks.
“I promise.”
She smiles down at you.
“Now don’t go all gloomy, you hear!”
You smile back up at her, from your lazy chair.
“It’s only for a week.” she says; “I won’t be gone forever.”
She walks over to where you sit, kneels before you and takes your hands in hers. Then she stands up again, bows over, kisses you softly on your mouth and looks you into your eyes.
“You’ll be okay?” she asks; ‘Really okay?”
You smile at her again, and say:
“Of course. It’s like you say, It won’t be forever…”
You go your way
I’ll go your way too
(Leonard Cohen)
