The Word: Spores

The drill: Each week, I ask my Facebook friends to suggest a word. I then put the suggestions into list form, run a random-number generator and choose the corresponding word from the list. That word serves as the inspiration for a story that includes at least one usage of the word in question. This week's word is contributed by Adrianne Hurtig. For previous installments of The Word, click here.

I heard that song yesterday, the one where the guy talks about wanting to open his mouth wide enough for a marching band to come out of it, and it got me to thinking about some things. If I could spread my mouth open that wide, I'd like to think that all the words I've never found at the moment I needed them would be right there, queued up perfectly, waiting for the chance to come around again. Maybe Kate would tell me again that I'm incapable of real love, and instead of standing there, struck dumb as she walked away, I would open wide and hear myself say, "No, just incapable of loving you." I thought of that on my own, a half-hour later. Not that it did me any good.

People talk about "real love" the way politicians talk about the "real economy." It doesn't mean anything, except in their own heads. Even then, the idea of "real" is specious at best. It's not a measure of authenticity, just a reflection of their desire that it be something other than what they have. That's what it was with Kate. After three years, she didn't want me, didn't want my troubles, didn't want what I could give, despite everything that happened. She wanted something else—what, she had no idea. That mythical thing became "real love," and I became another guy on a park bench, looking for something that was gone, gone, gone.

I loved Kate once, and though she's probably been telling her friends otherwise, she loved me. For a while there, we had dreams—and while anyone can have dreams, we also had plans. It all seems moot now. The life we built together exists in parts, like in a scrap yard. Our house, hers. Our car, mine. The crib we bought, given away. I sealed off the room we'd painted blue with clouds on the wall, and I moved the crib into the garage. I couldn't stand to look at it, couldn't stand to accept money for it. Just take it, I told the man and his wife, who looked for all the world like Kate and I did a year earlier. Effervescent. Apple-cheeked. In love. I hope it lasts.

I think I could love again. Not now, but someday, maybe. I have to learn to live with regret, and that's not easy when you pile up new ones every day. Today included. I'm sorry that I wished to say I was incapable of loving Kate. That's not what I want, and I take it back.

I wish I could pluck a dandelion from the grass below my feet and blow on the flowering part, and the spores I set free would float around on the wind until they found someone who needed love or comfort or a friend. They would ride in that person's hair or on her clothes, all the way home, and would become what she needed, the way I could not.