The Promise

Promises...

Pocket change in the penny jar of life. Invitations to hold yourself to a level of trust or faith beyond the human condition. Temptations from the Faustian beasties that chase us all throughout our lives. Daughter of commitment, cousin to secret, nemesis to gossip. Loathsome promise. Catalyst of myriad a woeful tale.

I consider myself a cynical man, but I wasn't always. As a lad I found comfort in the ever present arms of my parents, safety in the watchful eye of my lord, companionship with the boys of my village. As a young man I became learned through the guidance of my teachers and found love in my own heart when I promised it to my betrothed.

But as a learned man I discovered truths and developed beliefs that differed from those of my father. I came to believe that my lord was nothing more than a tale taught to those weak of mind. I tried to share this belief with my family, but debate was not as welcome at home as it was in the hallways and auditoriums of my Alma mater.

Thrown to the wolves for my transgressions, I made plea to the families of my village chums for nourishment, but their sons made more than quarrel and left me broken and bruised and alone beyond our village walls.

Rage ran hot through my blood and poisoned my mind with resentment towards my teachers for their twisted truths that tore me from the bosom of all I had known as comfort, safety and companionship. But surely my lover would not fail me. She with whom I made commitment of my companionship. She would welcome the secrets of my knowledge. For I had made promise to share with her the comforts of my hearth, my bed, my kettle and my home.

Alas, bad news travels faster than a man with no horse. I spent too many days in search of a master to serve and too many cold nights without food or drink. Weak and disheveled, I had but a cup to fill with water from unsavory sources and with which I employed many a darkened doorway with outreached hand, reduced to beggar. Finally I arrived at the gilded entry to my lover's family home, but she did not recognize the man who stood before her, only the name she swore to her father that I must have stolen for I was not the man with whom she made promise.

Now wet, cold, unshaven, mud in my beard, cup in hand, in beggars clothes, all my promises broken at my feet and all my dreams beside them. I made one final promise and only to myself, to never put trust or faith in another again. Twenty-five years on and I am master of all that I see and nothing at all. I have two cups now, one for drink and one for tokens. But I stand here before you my dear, knowing your story parallels my own, that you too are broken. I see the mud in your hair and the missing tooth in your far too infrequent smile and break my own promise to myself as I offer you my second cup, this empty doorway and this torn blanket in exchange for the comfort of your arms, for you are the love I have waited for all of my days.