It’s so strange to see him here, a clash of two very different worlds.

It unnerves M as she squirms under the scrutiny of his gaze, still the penetrating azure of her memories.

He smiles as recognition lights up his face, adjusts the collar of his coat and runs a hand through his hair. M used to love the way his hair would glint gloriously in the sun.

Now it’s starting to thin a bit at the temples and showing streaks of silver behind his ears.

No matter, she muses, he’s not hers and he’s never been hers.

If so, then why is it so hard to breathe?

Swallowing the flood of regret trapped just beyond her epiglottis takes more effort than she feels she can manage. But she manages and is even able to eke out a carefully practiced smile.

Her mind protests loudly as they make their way towards each other and she’s feeling terribly betrayed by her feet as she breaks into a brisk walk into his arms.

I’ve missed you, she hears him mutter into her ear and she can only close her eyes and take in his scent. He’s woodsy with a hint of patchouli and bergamot and perhaps a tinge of fine leather.

The freshness of laundry detergent and soap cuts through to a nice finish and she never wants to let him go.

But here they are, parting already and exchanging nothing but the shallowest of pleasantries.

How’ve you been?

What are you doing here in New York?

How is the family?

The fine, vellous hairs at the start of his fading hairline catches her eye and she marvels at the way they seem to catch all the light. It’s a softness that makes her chest constrict, much in a way a heart attack would, she reckons.

Memories that used to lay dormant roars alive in the space between her ears and from under the protective hold of her rib cage.

Days spent lazing around with their mutual friends, hours spent making the perfect CD mixes, ice cream in the summers and hot drinks to warm their hands in the winters, day trips to the beach and shy furtive glances at each other under twinkly carnival lights…

It’s all too much to repress and she just allows herself to bask in the warmth of those memories while trying to concentrate on the conversation.

Quite frankly, she couldn’t care any less about quantum physics and faster-than-light travel but eagerly nods and smiles to prolong the conversation as long as possible.

All the while, she’s committing his features- now harder, firmer and defined with fine lines set into his strong jaw-into her memory. She doesn’t know when she’ll be graced with the opportunity to see him again.

A familiar ring breaks the conversation and she silences her phone without bothering to check who’s calling. She resists the urge to curse the caller under her breath and smiles at the blonde to continue.

But it’s broken their flow, and he’s checking the time on his phone as well.

I’ve got to get going now. 

She nods blankly, numb but burning all over, all at once. It’s a terrible juxtaposition, to feel everything and nothing, searing pain and apathy.

She wonders if he’s broken her brain. At the very least, he’s broken her heart.

You should be used to this, she smiles bitterly.

As he walks away, she stands rooted to the spot, hoping that he’d turn around and look back at least once.

Just once, she pleads. But his figure continues to retreat and soon he’s lost among the crowds heading for the subways.

Even the weather is not cooperating with her today as the bright rays and gentle breezes belies her grief and moodiness. She’d have much preferred rain and chilly temperatures.

But life is cruelly ironic.

She hugs herself tightly, trying to mend the large gap he’s left behind, trying to pick up the pieces of herself falling after him.

He’s not yours…

The evening is cool but uncharacteristically warm for January and after only a dozen outfit changes, she settles for a blazer and a pair of slimming black pants.

The drive into the city is relatively uneventful and with trepidation, she heads towards the Lincoln Center with her sisters.

It’s a beautiful venue, a mix of modern and traditional architecture. Glimmering lights from the fountain mesmerizes the crowds as they wait for the doors to open.

Turandot- one of the few shows left in the season for Giacomo Puccini’s beloved classic.

Pretty soon, throngs of people line up at the door. Ball gowns, suits, jeans-people from all sorts of backgrounds gather for an evening of opulent entertainment.

Parts of their party saunter in and lines up and she waits anxiously for the last two of their group to join.

She sees him and his friend after a moment-dashing in his well fitted beige suit. She wonders for a brief moment why she hasn’t found him so handsome before but the moment passes and all too soon they are headed up the winding staircases lined in plush red carpet.

The crystal modern chandeliers twinkle majestically as they are flanked on both sides by towering Chagall murals. Gold gilded accents and the indescribable scent of luxury shines through the space.

It’s all together magical.

Their seats are at the very top of the large auditorium, close enough that the gold gilded ceilings are within an arm’s reach.

But when the music starts, the sound is beautifully rich-it’s true, she muses, there’s truly no bad seat in the opera.

That is, no bad seat  where the music isn’t obscured by an overhang.

In the nosebleeds, the sound waves bounce right off the ceiling back at them and it’s overwhelming.

The singing, the theatrics, the costumes and the sets! Oh the sets are too incredible to put into words and the time passes all too quickly.

During the intermissions, she wonders the bars on the balcony level and revels at the sight. The night is lovely and they snap a few photos.

The evening comes to an end all too soon.

But she’s determined to come back.

And she does.

Nearly a month later, she finds herself sitting in a box with her two sisters.

It’s a double bill, Cavalleria Rusticana / Pagliacci.

The music is even more beautiful than before, especially the famous Intermezzo and she’s moved to tears.

She doesn’t even wander the amazing grounds of the opera house during the intermission-she’s anxious for the show to continue.

And Pagliacci is even more entertaining than the show previous (although she must admit, the music from Cavalleria is more touching).

Opera.

There’s a reason why it’s so highly regarded.

It’s another gloomy day.

The sisters have been attending Pioneer School, H for the second time now and J the first. They’ve been studying diligently for the past month but it’s starting to wear them down.

How did I do this previously, they wonder. It has been a while since either of them has had to study.

After all, H graduated from college 3 years ago and J withdrew from her studies 2 years ago.

But still they grit their teeth, armed with an arsenal of glittery and colorful pens, cute animal post-its, and computers playing soothing music.

The Korean congregation my family attends has been assigned lunch duty for the first three days.

Day one the menu was 비빔밥 and my mother spent the morning getting the 고사리 나물 ready.

Day two was by a different service group and they made 2 kinds of curry.

Day three and the sisters are making 콩나물 밥 and 부추전 and my mother has spent all of yesterday afternoon and this morning frying the little Korean pancakes.

The smell of fried dough and vegetables permeate the whole house, the sizzling sounds of the oil crackles through the walls.

It’s familiar and comforting and I have a little tasting.

The crunch of the golden crust followed by the soft Korean chives and onions and a hint of ocean brininess from the squid melds together on my palate.

They’re delicious, I tell her.

My mother smiles. She’s proud. She knows they’re good, the entire hall has said she makes them the best.

I am envious of my sisters as they get to enjoy both the wonderful foods lovingly prepared for by the sisters as well as the spiritual upbuilding by Brother J, the cute Korean CO who can’t even finish a joke he’s laughing too hard.

At his own joke.

It’s endearing and the Korean circuit loves him, loves his humble and sweet wife. They’re sad to see them go.

I’m saddened as well, they’ve stayed during the C/O visits before and were the most gracious of guests.

I’ve started reading the new convention releases, and appreciate once more how Jehovah brings his organization together.