When I was a young boy, I dreamed of marrying a girl. We would have four children: two boys, two girls. I had their names written in the back of a notebook. Margaret, Gabriel, Ely, and Franco. My parents would love their grandchildren and I would be in love with my family. I was going to find the girl of my dreams, court her, get her to say yes, and eventually marry her and start a family.
Things don’t always turn out to be the way you want it when you’re seven.
When I was a young boy, I got teased, and punched, harassed, and cursed. The other boys told me I was a sissy. So I thought I was.
I grew up thinking I was really a sissy. And the dreams of marrying a girl slowly turned into a burning desire for a man to think I was not actually a sissy. Margaret drowned. Gabriel fell of a cliff. Ely was given up for adoption. Franco was lost. No courting happened. No girl was given flowers and chocolates. No romantic dates ever took place. The young boy instead, started looking for a bold man who was more dashing than a prince but not as vain as a royal. He searched far and wide, down valleys and up across mountains, in busy city streets and peaceful provincial grounds.
Things don’t always turn out the way you want it even when you’re twenty-two.
No courting has happened. No man has given the boy flowers or chocolates. No romantic dates have ever taken place. No man has stepped forward. The boy has stopped looking. He no longer thinks he is a sissy. He has forgiven the boys of his youth who bruised him and left him blues. He has complete faith on fate now.
But he still asks,
Am I strong enough for two, darling, my heart hasn’t got a clue.