Ryan and I

By: Roxann Currier and Ryan Denton

At nineteen I decided I would never get married. I had two examples of perfect husbands, my father and my grandfather, who elevated my expectations for a better-half to a height that could never be obtained by any other mortal, examples who have dedicated their entire lives to their family; examples who have always, without exception, never hesitating, sacrificed their own desires for the need of their spouse. My parents have been married twenty-eight years; my grandparents fifty-six years. I was certain that these examples of marriage, within an institution rapidly eroding, could never be emulated in contemporary society. I was positive that gentility and selflessness, qualities I had witnessed throughout my life, had vanished from the world along with the reverence for the sacramental bonds of matrimony. My pessimism was expanded due my obstinate rejection of divorce, which, in a country boasting an over-fifty percent divorce rate, along with a conditioned mentality that financial deprivation is a leading element for divorce (never good considering the economy), forced me to reject any notion of getting married. I received the cordial comments of friends who were engaged with repressed regret, subconsciously determining that their marriage was already a doomed statistic. Instead of submitting myself to ideas of cinematic romance, I was content with devoting my life to personal interests, such as teaching children and sacrificing time to charity, and, if I ever experienced a shadow of loneliness or a golden desire for love, I would simply turn to my parents, who would revive my decree that the characteristics demanded for true love were found only in their own personalities.

In an English class at Eastern New Mexico University, we were assigned to memorize Beowulf lines in old English. I had noticed Ryan in other classes, my eyes being entranced by his hair, long and shaggy, but now I admired him for another reason. His hair had been shaved, leaving an oblong shape cloaked with brown stubble, and his interest for Old English had obviously dwindled (as did everyone’s) since the commencement of the course in January. Going to class was burdensome, and the cumbrance was increased by this new assignment of memorization. But, immediately following class one day, he stopped me in the hall and inquired if I was interested in studying together. (He later told me that he felt like he had to ask me for some reason, I see it as fate). I agreed. We decided to divide the work and email our results that night. Typically I detested group work, enjoying instead the individual demand that is natural for a university; however, my preference was quickly reversed when I discovered that Ryan was actually reliable. He executed his part, and executed it well.

The following day we met on a bench to study. Within a few minutes, however, never even opening our notes, we were rolling through a philosophical tangent regarding the communication of sparrows and why English is the quintessential subject of study because the homework consists of reading fiction, and yet, we both agreed that at our University, English might not be quintessential because it required two years of foreign language, which would better be stated, two years of Spanish. Ryan was studying French, I was studying German, but the University only carried one year of French and failed to offer German. We supposed, naturally, that we were in unfortunate predicaments, until Ryan announced that was transferring to UNM in the summer, where he could resume studies in French. I prevented myself from becoming excited, knowing that I, too, would be in Albuquerque over the summer, but remnants of euphoria were released throughout our five hour conversation that concluded, appropriately, at an English award ceremony that we were both apprehensive about attending. By the end of the day we were already expressing our dissatisfaction of the world for forcing us to conclude our prolonged conversation, and, though it succeeded on that day, the roots of a lasting friendship, roots that already possessed fortitude to overcome the world, were rapidly germinating.

Following our initial engagement, we developed a routine that included walks at least twice a week and conversation once a day. Our walks were escorted by golden spring sun, pulpy flowers of yellow and orange and pink, and a strange, invisible figure that surrounded us with busy fingers, intertwining our souls with a knot that would overcome any obstacle. One day, waking up to the patter of rain that no longer reminded me of tears, I dressed quickly and scurried to school, anxious for our walk. Prior to that day, walking through the rain would ice my blood and embitter my mind, leaving me gloomy and miserable for hours, but, as Ryan and I walked through the rain, conversing and laughing like it was a gorgeous summer morning, I realized that he was changing my life, and I realized that I was happy about it. Along with taking our dream walk through elements fit for a nightmare, Ryan and I, not satisfied with the three or four hours we had during the day together, developed a metaphoric setting to visit at night, an imaginary castle that removed us, and continues to remove us from the distractions of the world until we can see each other again. We often visit the moon, nestling together in a silver crater while watching stars play tag in the Milky Way; we visit sandy beaches; we hop hand-in-hand across soft orange clouds until we get tired and lie down, using the billowy cotton for a blanket.

Three weeks after Ryan and I had commenced our friendship, the semester concluded and we were forced to part, I to Rio Rancho, he to Clovis, until thirty rotations of the sun would bring him to Albuquerque and our relationship back together. Before leaving, Ryan and I tied bracelets to each other’s wrist that he had made, declaring them physical sentiments to our friendship. The following four weeks were the slowest I had ever experienced. We devoted each night to conversations over the phone, and after we hung up we immediately travelled to our castle. Eventually, finally, the day arrived for Ryan to relocate to Albuquerque. He departed home early one Saturday, was moved-in to his apartment by the afternoon, and called me the moment he successfully kicked-out the movers (a couple of chums, he recalls). We had successfully concluded four weeks of separation, and, adding to my excitement, I recognized that he was still wearing his bracelets, a sign of commitment that I was naturally skeptical about and a sign of commitment that, knowing our grandest test was, if our relationship continued to develop, still ahead. The summer of 2008 rippled by in a constant rapture of long talks, tranquil stargazing, books, picnics, and cuddling. We were in love. Our relationship was escalating into something larger than a momentary fling, and we both knew it; everything knew it—leaves swung to and fro from the boughs singing love songs through the voicebox of birds; the sun, smiling, dropped light upon our romance and demanded that the moon, who would sometimes release his duty to the laughing stars, to sprinkle our love with misty silver. Nature assisted our love, our souls, still being entwined by our invisible friend, assisted our love, everything assisted our love but the world, which would, at the end of summer, heave another obstacle in our path.

In August I moved to Pennsylvania. The plans were developed many months before I had met Ryan, and they became permanent during our first separation, immediately following the semester, before I allowed myself to acknowledge the rapid growth of our relationship. The day before I left, Ryan held me for hours. We talked of our fears, often crying; we revisited memories of the past four months with bittersweet laughter. I no longer wanted to leave, but my commitment could not be extricated. On that day he asked me to marry him. We had talked about marriage about two months in to our relationship, but this solidified it. We embraced each other as a torrent of tears, a mixture of euphoria and mourning, ran down our cheeks, smearing each other’s neck and arms and hands with physical symbols of our internal emotions. We adorned our wrists with another bracelet to symbolize another bond, an everlasting bond, and prepared ourselves for the subsequent months.

We spent four months apart, months divided into days that consisted of sporadic phone calls and culminating at night with segments of Shakespeare we read to each other (it was my homework, but it gave us time together). Neither of us ate much, and I slept all the time to go back to our castle. It was clear to me that the once independent girl now longed for her soulmate. Ryan kept his mind occupied by painting me a picture, which expresses the torment he felt when we were apart. It now hangs above my bed. In the middle of October we were reunited for a week, three days here, four in Pennsylvania, but they were as painful as they were beautiful. Our time together was shadowed by the tormenting realization that we would be split apart again. During his visit to Pennsylvania, we procured a hotel a mile away from the University I was attending. Ryan’s plane was delayed three hours, and at one a.m., his taxi driver refusing to take him the extra distance to the University where I was waiting, Ryan commenced his trek through blistering cold weather splattered with mild precipitation, not allowing me to meet him half way. The next morning, on the footsteps of our hotel, we peered down the long road with subtle apprehension, knowing the university was far away and we desired our time to be spent together, not in a classroom. Ryan walked me to school that morning carrying my books the entire distance, never complaining of the fatigue he was indubitably experiencing from the plane, the late-night walk, and the sudden time change (to him, it was five a.m.). After class, laying in the green verdure on my campus, we reminisced to old times and transported into the future, establishing plans and discussing desires.

In November Ryan arrived again. I never asked him to fly out, but he offered and bought his ticket before I even left for Pennsylvania, and of course I was happy about it. His plane arrived the day before thanksgiving, and that night, without any sleep, we hopped into his rental car and headed for New York, determined to experience the Macy’s Day Parade. The experience was filled with images of daunting skyscrapers and hasty pedestrians. We walked along Broadway, we strolled past the Rockefeller Center, our hearts replete with inexpressible joy from the combination of reunited love and the sights of the Big Apple, but, and we cherish it rather than regret it, our financial limitations restricted our Thanksgiving meal to microwave macaroni and two bags of peanut M&M’s. He loved it, and for it I love him.

Being away from Ryan was terrible, both in May and the second half of the year, but our relationship naturally developed a foundation based on friendship and loyalty, elements that can transcend us over any difficulties the world decides to implement. And although we suffered, more than I can express on paper, we learned to be faithful, patient, and understanding; we learned to accept, assist, and adjust to each other’s needs.

On December 12 I flew home to my beloved, and on December 21, while I was suffering a cold and adorned in sweatpants, Ryan dropped to one knee (which is a common characteristic so I wasn’t expecting anything) and told me how important I was to him; how he could never live without me; how he desired to spend the rest of his life with me. I was still delirious of his intentions and, being cold, asked if he would hold me on his couch. Then, suddenly, he revealed a ring and asked if I would marry him. We celebrated our engagement in Phoenix, watching the Lion King on theater, I wanted to go in New York but we could not afford it, so Ryan saved up the money and took me to Phoenix for Christmas, and we continue to celebrate every day and every night, still unable to take for granted being together.

In December of 2009, the day after we (hopefully) obtain our degrees, Ryan and I will be married. As for the wedding, I have never been one who dreamed of huge boutiques and elaborate decorations, nothing flashy, no crowds, no outlandish partying. Thankfully, Ryan agrees. We still wear our bracelets, and at the ceremony we will cut them off, symbolizing that we will never be separated again. Our castle, though it will always possess a beautiful spot in our hearts, will rest undisturbed. We hope to have a harpist play classical Christmas music as we dine, celebrate, and walk through the memories and future of our relationship. Ryan and I both feel that the wedding, though special, is not as significant as the love we cherish in each other. We considered ourselves married, spiritually, the day before I left for Pennsylvania, and we look forward to this occasion to document it to the world. As for that mysterious figure that has been hovering around us since the day we met, it continues to nurture our love; it continues to transcend our relationship above any worldly domains, intertwining our souls for eternity. Ryan supports me in everything I do, and my dreams, with his assistance, can not only still be fulfilled, but can now, with soulmate at my side, be accomplished with ease and happiness, regardless of the world’s difficulties. Every night I travel to our wedding, already taking place in our castle, and soon, before I know it, the walls will disappear, the roof will fade into reality, and I’ll wake up the next morning in the arms of my husband.