I loved the boy who took me there.

There used to be a Danish restaurant in Toronto that served up a Sunday Smorgasbord. It was downstairs in a tall office tower. I loved going and sampling herring and tripe and unpronounceable dishes that tasted of cold crisp northern skies and salty seas. I loved the Danish beer, cold and frosty in tall fluted mugs. The blue table cloths and crisp white napkins.

And most of all, I loved the boy who took me there.

Long ago, I stood high up in the sky, feet firmly planted atop mountain peaks where sky met snow and craggy rocks projected upwards in defiance of gravity. Exhilarated, exhausted, I'd stand, arms spread wide, fingertips reaching out to touch the cerulean arc above me, screaming into the wide open spaces of the void that echoed back my unbridled passion for the moment. I loved the heights. The vistas. The long view scrolling outward to a far and distant skyline edged with crenellated peaks rolling into the distance.

And most of all, I loved the boy who took me there.

Once, I dove deep into the ocean, swimming amidst tiny rainbow coloured parrot fish and lacy haired angels and spiny cowfish who fluttered through the water effortlessly. I laughed at schools of wide-eyed butterflyfish swimming in my face and marvelled at giant mantras winging their way gracefully through the water. I flowed with the water and the water flowed with me. I fell in love with the deep blue mystery of the world swimming with life all around me. I fell in love with the wonder and the magic of it all.

And most of all, I fell in love with me swimming on my own, no boy to take me there.

Once upon a time I loved the thought of a boy taking me to heights I've never known. Showing me a world I'd never seen. Treating me to tastes never imagined.

Now, I go to heights and places and experience things I never before imagined because now I know, this is my life to live and treasure and experience and know with or without a boy to take me there.

The presence of a boy only heightens the experience. It doesn't make it happen.

Over at the blog, A Year With Rilke, Ruth writes in a comment to her post, Unsayable, "his words are not the moon, but only the finger pointing at the moon."

I like that. The boy did not bring me here. He was but a signpost on the way. It was life that lead me here. Life that brought me to my knees. Life that lifted me up to the skies. Life that brought me into Love.

And, just because I want to, just because I can, I'd like to share a little Sunday wonder...

Listen and marvel to Suheir Hammad as she shares her poems of war, peace, women, power.