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The garden gate rattles, and I look up from my PC into the garden through the window, annoyed. Who's bothering me now? Working at home is really sometimes a pain, but I have to finally enter the statistics, which are piling up as loose sheets on my desk, into the computer. It's not exactly fun, but it's part of my job here on the coast. Counting ducks and geese in the wild is, of course, much more interesting, but it has to be done.
The cherry tree is showing its first blossoms, the bike is leaning over there. Jos is just entering the house through the terrace, the door is open as always. Now I hear the backpack hitting the floorboards, the zipper of his anorak rattling and shortly afterwards both sneakers clap on the floorboards. I wasn't expecting him; the rehearsal isn't until Thursday. He enters my office in his socks and throws himself into the worn brown leather armchair without saying hello. He lets out a deep sigh and pulls his feet up to him, wrapping his arms around his knees and keeping his head bowed.
Curly hair, jeans, a sweatshirt, hand-knitted, colorful socks, the kind my grandma used to knit for me, scratchy and hard but warm, I think to myself.
What's wrong with him? A six in math, lovesickness, trouble with his parents, no, with them he actually gets along quite well, they are nice, at least as far as I know them. A little old-fashioned, conservative and they don't come to the concerts either, but the music is probably not always parent-compatible either. He's not going to cancel the rehearsal, is he? The guys still have a lot of practicing to do before our band's performance. Jos plays the drums, he's quite talented, but he should be there for the rehearsals. On Thursdays, we always practice in my big shed, so no one should feel disturbed in their well-deserved or undeserved rest. I live quite a distance from our small village.
So I take a look at Jos: the whole appearance in front of me is just the personification of misery, it must be something serious!
“Hi,” I say, brushing my much-too-long, straight hair out of my face, trying a relaxed smile and taking a seat in the other armchair, a small round table separates us, full of books, sheet music, a wine glass and the wooden box with the cigars.
My PC is just switching to the screensaver, a black and white photo of the band is building up, six cheerful guys in black clothes, lying on the dike with their arms propped up, and me in the middle, also in black, above us the endless gray sky, on the dike only a white sheep. Seven black sheep and one white one, the guys thought it was cool. Jos is also there, but he's grinning boldly into the camera.
He looks up, how can he have such big brown eyes? His brown curls frame his narrow face. God, the little one has become so handsome, the last pimples have already disappeared, flawless pure skin, in the evenings during rehearsals and at the performances, he always has black made-up eyes, today they are wide open, but deeply sad.
“Ben,” he says, ”my completely stupid parents, they've really messed up, damn it.”
Aha, so it's the parents after all. He's good at school, I would have been surprised if he wasn't, and with his looks, the girls are bound to be delighted. I've already noticed that at the gigs, even though as a drummer he's always sitting pretty far back and the girls often look longingly at the singer first. Yes, I'm quite proud when the band accepts the applause after their performances. The screaming teenagers and my guys – sweaty, sticky and exhausted, but with that look in their eyes. I always see myself exactly the same way as they do today, with even longer hair. But the sparkle in my eyes often enough came from the dope that we bought just over the Dutch border and were able to smuggle across without any problems with my grandma's help, who always visited a friend there. My grandmother, who not only knitted socks, smuggled dope, but also embroidered my jeans jacket with the name of my favorite band “Birthcontrol”, whereby the fact that grandma didn't know a word of English probably helped a lot. That's all in the past. Jos brings me back.
“My stupid Catholic parents,” he groans.
Wait, what's that? Catholic? Jos is Catholic? But we live here in the land of the Evangelicals and the godless, there isn't even a Catholic church far and wide.
“Catholic, you're Catholic, Jos?” I ask stupidly, as if I care what someone's faith is or even if they believe anything.
“Yes, Catholic and gay!”
Now he looks at me uncertainly
“You don't care about that, do you?”
“What, that you're Catholic?”
“Nah man, that I'm gay?”
Careful Ben, now don't say the wrong thing, so schoolmasterly: I almost thought so, because it's not true. Although, actually, I suspected it. Back when he was looking at the photo book of black and white photos, this art book that I always keep on my desk, the large-format pictures with naked people embedded in nature. He hadn't looked at the women in the forest, the elf-like figures walking and lying among the moss and ferns in the fog, like the other boys always do.
No, he had stared almost enraptured at the naked man who nestles with his back against a rock in the sea and almost melts with the rock with his body and he had slammed the book shut pretty quickly when I looked over his shoulder – the boys are not usually so sensitive. Yes, there were other signs too, he had never taken part in the so-called women's stories. And I seem to have a well-trained perception! How stupid that sounds now. But they are still children who come to me to make music, I don't worry about their sexual orientation. My God, Jos is just sixteen, I would never worry about that.
“Been,” he brings me back to the present, ”you don't care, do you, cool man?”
“Of course I don't care, you know that!”
No, I don't care! Jos is homosexual, how wonderful and how awful, I feel queasy.
What does he want me to say: You're gay and that's good? Of course it's good, but he seems to have problems, the way he's sitting here, a picture of misery.
Of course he has problems, who doesn't!
So I guess I'll have to help him with his so-called coming out. As if I can help, I scoff to myself. His outburst suggests that his parents seem to know, but apparently they're not thrilled, if I understand him correctly.
But first of all, how does a cool guy who is trusted by the kids react?
“So you're gay. I won't ask if you're sure about it, I'm assuming you are. Do you want a tea?”
Tea is always good. I can make a tea and calmly consider how to get through this conversation professionally.
“No, coffee,“ he says.
“With rum?” I smile, knowing full well that he wouldn't get any alcohol from me.
“No, with your whiskey that you always hide from us.”
Aha, so he knows that too, nobody should drink my expensive 20-year-old single malt from the milksops.
He jumps in: “I'll make my own coffee, then you can get your whisky out of your hiding place,” he grins again rebelliously.
I hear him fiddling with my coffee machine in the kitchen and actually looking for the desired whisky. Then I stand at the window and think and dream and am far away. I brush my thoughts aside and stare into the garden.
A moment later he returns, balancing two mugs, which he sets down on the small table. I pour him a tiny sip and a little more whisky into my black coffee.
“Ha, that wasn't even a teaspoon of alcohol,” he complains, ”You're a stickler for rules.”
Yes, if that's how he wants to see it.
“Tell me, are you in love yet?“ I want to distract him, but I don't want to appear too curious.
He suddenly beams and jumps up again.
“I have a picture of him, he goes to my parallel class, is super sweet and hooray,” he spreads both arms, “we're together.”
Wow, Jos is homosexual, in love and has a boyfriend. A bit much all at once.
“I'm looking for the photos,” he shouts, running into the hallway and rummaging through his backpack.
And I have some time to smooth my facial features and look once more through the window at my slightly blossomed cherry tree, which is rustling softly in the spring wind.
There he is again, his camera held high in his hand. He is beaming, his eyes are sparkling, he slides on his socks across my wooden floor to my armchair.
“Can you handle it?” he asks, ‘No, let me show you.”
He stands behind my chair. Both arms slide past my head on the right and left, he leans his head on my shoulder and waves his hands with the camera in front of my face. His warm breath caresses my right ear.
“Wait,’ he whispers, ”the right photos will be there in a moment.”
His long brown curls tickle me, his face is dangerously close to mine, his eyes stare almost ecstatically at the camera.
I concentrate on the display.
“There,” he whispers, ‘that's him, Jan-Martin!’ How can you pronounce such a boring name so gently and meaningfully?
Jan-Martin is blond, has blue eyes and, at his age, is the perfect match for Jos. He grins adventurously into the camera and yes, in the next photo he is definitely looking at Jos with great love.
“Great guy,“ I mutter.
“Great guy,” he grunts, “Jan Martin is the sweetest guy ever, I'm totally in love.”
Then I get to see a few more photos where the two of them kiss very skillfully, with tongues, so they've clearly had a lot of practice.
But now to really important topics.
“So Jos, you seem to me to be currently sky-high and sad to death. What's going on, love life okay - parenting life all s---?”
“Yes,” he sighs again, gets up and cuddles up in his armchair again. That's better, a little distance is needed for this kind of advice.
“My parents saw the photos and summoned me for a talk.”
“Well at least they didn't delete the photos.”
“Yes, they did, we took new ones.”
“So let's be clear,” he recites as if he had learned the sentences by heart.
“They say they still love me.”
That's a lot, I think, with all the unloved children in this world.
“But there's no such thing as gay life in Catholicism, I should get that out of my head and, if necessary, live my whole life in abstinence. I can have homosexual thoughts or something like that, so I can be into men, but I'm not allowed to fuck,” he turns bright red, ”or even kiss Jan-Martin.”
Well, judging by the photos, he doesn't seem to be planning on being celibate. How much experience do you think he has? I'm definitely not going to ask that question.
But, he has just given me the official doctrine of the Catholic Church in very simple words.
“And I can't discuss it with them, that's what they say, they forgive me for what I've done, but they ask me not to sin anymore,” he continues.
Well, that's a tough nut that Jos got thrown at his feet. His parents are acting in accordance with the dogmas of the Catholic Church. Homosexuality yes, but not acting on it, the sexual union, so that children can be born. Wait a minute: Jos only has one sister left, ideal family - mother, father, son and daughter. The devout Catholic parents didn't use contraception, did they?
“Jos, you only have one sister, don't you?”
“Yes, why?”
He continues to prattle on: “What do you think of this shitty Catholic view, Ben? Oh, you probably can't understand it at all, you don't believe in anything!”
“Yes, Jos, I am religious and I also believe that there is a God.”
That just slipped out, I don't usually go around peddling my faith. It's my private business, it's nobody's business. But with Jos it's probably different.
“Huh?” He looks at me in disbelief. ”Do you also go to church and confession? Oh, you don't have anything to confess, you're already a saint.”
“Firstly, I am definitely not a saint, secondly, confession does not exist in the Protestant faith, for example, and thirdly, I do not necessarily need to belong to the Church as an institution to be religious, and fourthly, churches are very beautiful sacred buildings and especially Catholic churches, I can meditate very well in them and draw new strength.”
“Wow,” Jos looks at me in disbelief. ”You think... Cologne Cathedral is beautiful?”
Well, when I was meditating, I was thinking of churches somewhere on the Mediterranean, not of the huge Cologne Cathedral. Whenever I'm on vacation and go hiking, I often sit in beautiful, old, small churches. I told Jos that I've often used them for meditation for years, but also just for brooding, for endlessly long brooding.
“Then you can actually explain this to me with my parents? You know, I love my parents madly, I've always got on well with them, they never dragged me to church either, you know. They themselves probably always went to church in the district town regularly, but I didn't need to go with them, well except at Christmas and such. We never argued about Catholic beliefs, everything was fine and now they suddenly come up with all this stuff about being gay being a mortal sin and such. And their eyes, oh Ben, they always look at me now as if I had already died and I'm lying in the coffin and they are saying goodbye. They only whisper to each other, and they only talk to me when absolutely necessary. I don't want to lose them.“ Tears run down Jos' face.
“But I love Jan-Martin too, I can't do without him either.” He then speaks more clearly and loudly.
Poor Jos!
“Your name is probably also Josef, Jos?” I ask abruptly.
“Yes, didn't you know?” he grins again, ‘Josef, an old, arch-Catholic name, I should probably find a Maria and have lots of little Jesus children. That's what my parents had in mind for me.”
“Well, Jesus wasn't exactly the model son for parents either,’ I have to interrupt him,
“Huh?” he asks.
“Well, at the age of twelve he just runs away from home to the temple and denies his parents, and later he travels the country with twelve men and preaches, without professional training or a permanent place of residence. Then he takes on the authorities, never keeps his mouth shut and would rather be crucified than give in. If that's an ideal son?”
“You're cheeky, Ben, now don't tell me you think Jesus was gay?”
“No, Jos, I really don't know that, probably not, let's not speculate!”
“And in the Protestant church, being gay is not a problem? You know, Ben, at our school, as far as I know, no one has a problem with it. I can walk hand in hand with Jan-Martin across the schoolyard, the teachers grin at each other and my classmates don't really care and the girls think we're kind of cute.”
Jos and his friend hand in hand, times have obviously changed. In my day, you couldn't even be seen hand in hand with a girl on school grounds. Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration, and as if I ever wanted that. But my jeans jacket, embroidered with red embroidery thread “Birthcontrol”, was taboo, with its statement on birth control, even my reference to the band didn't help. Oh, they were wild times back then, and even then we always met in our barn to make and listen to music. I took over this old farm later when my grandparents died and I was drawn back to the countryside.
But first I have to explain something to Jos. How do I explain the difference between Catholicism and Protestantism to him without boring him? And anyway, I don't know that much myself. Maybe it's better to talk about my own beliefs.
“Ben,” he interrupts my thoughts again, ‘I'm amazed that you believe in anything. You're an ’68er, aren't you? You absorbed sexual and political freedom with your mother's milk.”
“Jos, I wasn't even born in 1968.”
“Yes, that's what I said: with my mother's milk.”
“Breastfeeding was completely out at the time,” I enlighten him. The idea of a swelling mother's breast is quite repulsive to me right now.
What do I believe now?
“Jos,” I start again, he looks at me with his big brown eyes full of expectation, I hold his gaze professionally. The eyes are very deep, how long has it been since I have sunk into any eyes, blue, gray, green, brown eyes, there have been such deep brown eyes before, as beautiful as Jos'. Brown eyes, what is happening here?
“Are you dreaming, Ben, or thinking?”
I'm thinking about how to explain all this to you? I dream of your brown eyes, Jos. No, I dream of other brown eyes.
“Just start, Ben.” He sounds a little annoyed.
“Okay, well, the Protestant Church is far from being of one mind on this either. You know there are many factions: some groups still consider homosexuality to be a sin. There are churches that even today offer to help 'cure' homosexuality. They are more restrictive than the Catholic Church, while others consider homosexuality to be equivalent to heterosexuality. In some parishes, gay couples are blessed as people, others explicitly bless their partnership in a service, which means that couples can actually get married there in church. In many parishes, the pastor can also live in a same-sex marriage. But you can already see the subtle but significant differences.”
Now he interrupts me for the first time: “Have you ever been to a gay wedding, Ben, how do you know all this?”
“No, I haven't!”
Why am I feeling so hot now? Don't think, keep talking.
“But you actually want to hear my view, not that of the churches, you are interested in how God thinks about it. So I believe in a loving God who loves us all just as we are. And there is nothing really significant in the New Testament about homosexuality, only Jesus gives us a wonderful new task: love your neighbor as yourself. And that is enough of a task, it gives us humans enough to think about and we keep failing at it. Most people have huge problems with accepting themselves, with loving themselves. So, my image of God is a loving God, I need that. A God who does not want misery in the world, but for some reasons we do not understand, cannot intervene. Many people look for an image of God that is most important to them. If you have suffered great injustice, you need a just God. If you can't stand effeminacy, you will have a harsh image of God, or even a punishing God.”
I realize that I'm just starting to lecture, I don't want that, but he asked and is still looking at me with great interest, so I continue:
“In the Bible it says that God created man in his own image as man and woman, so God is both man and woman, and if we are in his image, then God is young and old, beautiful and ugly, bursting with strength and delicate...”
“And straight and gay, is that what you really want to say, Ben? Is your God gay? Ben, do you really believe that?” Jos looks at me very perplexed.
Well, kid, that would be a good thought.
“A gay God, Ben, isn't that blasphemy when you say it out loud?”
“Well, I'm telling you, Jos and I firmly believe that God really understands you, he loves you just as you are. And hey, you love your Jan-Martin, is there anything more beautiful than that?” I now want to be a little less serious again. This conversation is going in a strange direction, what have I actually just said? That's not me, is it?
“Well, first of all, I'm in love. Love is such a big thing. I'm only 16, Ben.”
It's good that you're reminding me, little one. You're still much, much too young. And don't look at me like that!
How can someone be cuddled up so sweetly in my armchair. I'd better let my gaze roam through my garden again, his bike is still leaning against the cherry tree, I think some flowers have already blossomed tentatively in the April sun.
“Your God may be gay, Ben,” he pulls me back, ‘but my parents’ God is definitely not.”
“We only have one God, Jos, we'll have to share him. We are a monotheistic Christianity, well, all Christians have only one God and so many different views. So after we die, we'll all sit together in front of this one God, and some of us will look pretty stupid.”
“Do you seriously believe in life after death, Ben, I'm appalled at you, where's the cool gambler?”
“Oh, Jos, why did you come to me, because I'm the super cool guy or because you knew I can get pretty emotional?
And think about it, your parents will be sitting next to the Pope and the drag queens from Christopher Street Day in heaven or wherever in the afterlife.”
He laughs his head off. “Hey, I love our God,” he giggles.
“And what if you die and everything is completely different and there is no God at all?”
“Jos, don't get too philosophical,” I admonish him, ‘but you'll laugh, I've read that somewhere before, the person asked replied, ’Then I'll say I had a wonderful life with my God in the world before I died.'”
“Wow, Ben,” he says, ”you're wise, and we've never talked so well before, although I didn't get anywhere with my parents. But I think I'll have to go through with it somehow, and so will my parents. Oh dear, that could still be a problem. But your idea that I only have one sister is also kind of interesting.”
So he was listening after all.
You're brave, kid, you can do it! You're much braver than I ever was. And why am I suddenly having in-depth theological conversations here, when I've always been great at blocking it out and repressing it? I'm the cool one, the independent loner, the lone warrior, the one who's at one with nature and doesn't need close contact.
“Finish your coffee first, Jos.”
“Yuck, it's gone cold,” he shudders.
“Thanks, Ben,” he whispers. Then he jumps up, slides over to my chair, apparently wanting to suddenly throw himself into my arms, but he stops abruptly, puts his arms on the right and left of my chair and looks at me very seriously: ‘Do you actually have a girlfriend at the moment?’ he asks very firmly.
“No, do you see one here?”
“Well, then, no. Then I can do this!”
He leans forward and touches my lips very gently with his, I look at him in amazement, his eyes laugh, he doesn't ask for permission, he demands it. When I don't flinch in shock, his eyelids close, he is sure of himself and his lips press a little harder against mine. Oh Jos, do you know what you're doing right now? Yes, he knows. My hands stroke his brown hair, they are so soft, glide to the back of his neck and pull him a little closer to me. He doesn't back down, folds his arms and comes closer to me. I close my eyes and give myself up to his kiss. The kiss remains tender, young and innocent. It is arousing, yes, but my mind remains switched on. I keep my distance, enjoy, it is so beautiful, my heart flutters, my stomach goes straight slalom, I feel my excitement, but my mind tells me: be careful. You must not spoil it, stay with yourself, you can do it. An enormous tenderness washes over me – and then it's over.
Jos pulls back, he stands in front of my chair and grins at me, his cheeks are red, but his eyes look a bit arrogant.
“So Ben, now you've kissed a gay man for the first time in your life. Now you have something to discuss with your God.”
If he's not terribly mistaken about “kissing a gay man for the first time”, and, man, Jos really isn't a man yet, because I definitely wouldn't have let a man who kisses so well get away with it, a boyfriend in the background or not. And my God, he can handle my gay kisses, I have to confess, rather, my feelings towards a 16-year-old boy.
“Been, you liked it, admit it,” Jos again, and then grinning, ‘I saw it.’ He looks cheekily down at my jeans.
Where do kids get their self-confidence from these days?
“Hey, I have to go now, but I'll bring Jan-Martin to the meeting on Thursday, you really have to meet him.“ His brown eyes are sparkling again.
“Well, of course he's welcome, but no kissing orgies on my sofa, we'll have a band rehearsal first and then we want to play cards. Playing cards! Don't forget.” I threaten him with my index finger.
“Okay, for other games we'll go to the private room,” he points to my winter garden and then, grinning cheekily, to my bedroom door.
Naughty boy! I can finally get up again and tousle his hair, I can't do that right now.
But he is already halfway out and soon I hear him getting dressed in the hallway, shouting “Bye!” and disappearing through the kitchen.
I stand at the window and look after him, he waves before he gets the bike from the cherry tree.
Strong Jos, he is so positive, he will make it.
He jumps on his bike and rides a little recklessly through the garden gate.
I stand at the window and look wistfully after him.
My cherry tree is showing the first buds, delicate and reddish; soon it will be in full bloom.
“I want to do to you what spring does to cherry trees."
This poem comes to mind, I would have liked to have been spring.
Now someone else has kissed Jos awake and that's a good thing!
But didn't he much rather kiss me awake again? Shaken like a spring wind, made to blush and glow by his youth? That's a good thing too.
Thank you Jos.
My knees suddenly shake, my hands tremble and a lonely tear finds its way over my heated skin.
It was probably much more than just a kiss to wake me up. And suddenly I know that if I don't do it now, I'll never be able to do it again.
I sigh softly and go to the desk. I don't have to search for long. The photo is still in the top drawer. Brown eyes look at me, below them a business card is pinned, a name and the addition: “Theological Pastoral Care and Pastor of the Congregation in... and his phone number. I stare at the number I know so well for a long time and pick up the phone. There had been no contact between us for three years, no phone call, not a single word. The dial tone sounds, he answers almost immediately. My knees go weak, I clutch the receiver.
“Hi, it's Ben,” I whisper, and I hear him breathing heavily. ‘Ben,’ he says in an infinitely tired and old voice, ‘Ben, you shouldn't call again until you say yes to us. I am no longer responsible for your soul and for solving all your problems. What do you want? Do you want to marry me?’ His voice now sounds louder, mocking, hard and bitter. I gather all my courage. After all these years, I whisper, “Yes” into the receiver.
“What yes?” he asks irritably. ‘Yes,’ I say even more quietly. ‘Yes?’ he asks hesitantly and incredulously. ‘Yes,’ I say again, a little louder, but in a very croaky voice. “I'm coming, I'll be there in a moment!” he replies, not saying another word, and he doesn't have to say anything more, everything has already been said a long time ago, he will come.
I stand at the window and wait, he will have to drive for at least half an hour. Knowing him, he will take his motorcycle, his Hayabusa, so he will be here the fastest.
My legs have stopped shaking, my heart is beating calmly and evenly again, and I am filled with a deep sense of calm. I will stand here until he comes up the brick path. Everything will be fine.
I had always hidden, and for so many years we had been a secret couple. We had played together in the band, and when everyone else had left, we had made love in our old shed. Hungrily, we had repeatedly pounced on each other, just like that first time, when we woke up naked in his sleeping bag after a night of drinking and getting stoned, and without asking each other what had happened, we had hugged each other. Nobody had ever suspected anything! On weekends, we had later gone out on his motorcycle, even after he had long studied theology. At first he had chosen journalism, he would have been a great eloquent journalist. But when his little sister suddenly fell ill with leukemia and died a little later, he switched to theology. I always sat protected behind him on his fast motorcycles, clinging to his back and being happy.
But then he absolutely had to come out publicly; he didn't want to play hide and seek in his church anymore and I was supposed to say “I do” in his church in our neighboring town. However, I was much too cowardly, had a thousand objections, wanted everything to stay as it was. At some point he gave me the choice of either or... I chickened out and left. I had lost my lover, my soul mate and my best friend. He had the courage, was strong as always and it had gone well, he was still popular and respected in his community, only a few had avoided the church in the future, others had newly joined. The church council, the youth groups and the senior women's circle were eating out of his hand. While they had previously tried to set him up with all the young women, they now drew his attention to young men, but he had only smiled mysteriously and said that he could only give his heart away once and that the one he had given it to had not yet returned it to him. I had been told this, in passing while shopping, since from their point of view I was not affected. I was ashamed, but I didn't react and deny our love... And now their gay pastor would marry me, would partner me, I guess that's a stupid expression. I have to grin and yet shudder inside at my imagination – him and me in front of the altar and the curious glances of the whole village in his church.
Exactly twenty minutes later, I hear the deep hammering bass of the engine and he is already roaring through the garden gate. He has driven fast, too fast. He parks his motorcycle where Jos' bicycle was leaning earlier. It glistens in the sun, a few hasty cherry blossoms fall on the bare fairing.
“I want to do to you what spring does to cherry trees."
Well, he's more like a huge spring thunderstorm as he comes up the footpath. He puts his long gloves in his crash helmet and leaves everything on the patio table indifferently. He shakes his brown curls, and the black leather motorcycle gear and high leather boots, combined with his grim expression, make him look very dangerous. Two meters long and 100 kg of concentrated power thunder through my kitchen and he definitely doesn't take off his boots in the hallway.
There he stands in front of me, legs apart, brown eyes scanning me viciously, from top to bottom, for minutes.
I'm not afraid, everything will be fine!
Suddenly he spreads both arms, showing his sparkling white teeth, his brown eyes lure and his tongue pops provocatively into his cheek – an evil man with a dangerous amount of sex appeal. And I, I fly to his chest, finally! And I know very well that he will fuck the soul out of me today, the pastor. And he won't wait until the wedding night.
His kiss is not chaste, but wild, hot and relentlessly sexy, then suddenly, in his strong arms, which are now almost crushing me, I have to smile: Will my band play in the church at our wedding? Absolutely! Well Jos, that'll be a surprise!
Pablo Neruda, Chile, love poems, Poema XIV, Quiero hacer contigo lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos. I want to do with you what spring does with cherry trees.
The Bible “So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them” (Genesis 1:27)