He Asked If I Was Happy

Oscar Wilde found me at a bar one evening where I had slipped into the billiard room to sit quietly, to watch. He sauntered over, sat across from me, and engaged me with a question. This somehow turned into a confessional and I poured out a tale of my daughter. He just sat and listened. He looked imto my eyes and listened. He commented twice. Once he asked me if she was happy and the second was to ask me if I was happy. There was no judgement, no accusation, no hint of surprise or shock. There was an acceptance, a reverance for how I felt. Surprisingly it was easy. Me, who keeps her secrets secret willingly expelled one of them into the calm eyes of this stranger I rather fancy.

Perhaps it was the summers he spent with his siblings. Those that were from the marriage of his parents and those that were from previous loves of his father. Perhaps that, that was normal for him made my not so normal for others link us in a bond of rightfully unacceptable.

He lit a cigar and we sat in silence. He asked me about the melancholy shadow that stepped up beside me just then. It was James. A memory of James and our few stolen moments out of his short life when we, James and I would share a cigar and a botlte of Jameson and ponder the New Year. He signaled the waitress ordered 2 shots of the golden whiskey and after they arrived he toasted James and before he drank he said "It is good to keep and to have such a precious memory." He then leaned back into his chair and we silently watched the game at the billiard table. It was the warmest after James moment I have had.

Thank you Oscar Wilde.