I almost killed your daughter. Tilia and I met in school. We were lab partners in an introductory chemistry class. We didn’t get along. She was intense and I had bad hands, constantly dropping and spilling, costing us time and points, ruining her shoes. And one time I generated a noxious gas while trying to run a reaction designed to produce benign products. Thank goodness for our instructor’s quick action. No one had anticipated my capacity for circumventing safeguards through incompetence. Your daughter was not enamored of me.
After that class, I rarely saw Tilia around campus. But one cloudy day, we happened upon each other in the campus’ forest. We both love visiting the forms of life that can’t walk to us – trees, fungi, soil bacteria – so we can smell the molecules they release to communicate. We passed each other on a path that wound over and between some giant rocks, her hiking up and me hiking down. “Be careful,” I offered, “there’s a slippery spot just ahead.” She turned back to say, “What was that?” and as she spoke, she slipped on a biofilm-coated rock. I caught her just in time, my grasp holding her fast. I still don’t know if she was angry or grateful that day. Probably both. But I knew, as I saw her continue along the trail, not looking back, that I could not imagine living in a world out of which she had fallen.
The next time I saw her was at a wedding. Her friend was marrying mine. Tilia was playing the traditional wedding music. It was intended as a gift for her friend, but I think it affected me more than anyone else in attendance. Her fingers moved so rapidly, so fluidly through the complex notes, like the coordinated flashing of thousands of lightning bugs. It was beautiful. When she shifted to using only the fingers of her right hand, it became astonishingly beautiful. Her ability to convey the simplicity and purity of the music connected me with past generations in a way I’d never experienced or expected. I didn’t get to speak with her, but I knew that day that I wanted to couple with her.
A year later, we met again at a conference. She had just given a spectacular presentation on her research. The sea of raised hands that arose upon its conclusion belonged, almost exclusively, to the old and privileged. They were threatened by her brilliance and unleashed volley after volley of ad hominem attacks, designed to distract and demoralize. I cannot recollect a more disgusting display. But I have never seen such a situation handled with more grace. Not only did the audience leave understanding her message, but many left empowered. She empowered me. That was the third time I fell for her. It was too much to bear. I requested a meal with her that night and, much to my surprise, she acquiesced. Surprisingly, she remembered me. And from there we grew together.
That was our path. So, dear mother, may I have your daughter’s hand in marriage?
“You may.” #
“Please hold still while I cut off your hands. As you know, it is tradition that the cuts are made simultaneously. Through the pain of loss, your minds are prepared for coupling”
“I love you, dearest Kestrel.”
“I love you too.”
“We shall now sterilize the cuts. The sting of the solution shall jolt your souls into clarity.”
“Do you remember when we first met?”
“I do. I disliked you immediately!”
“I could tell. I was intimidated by you.”
“I could tell. That’s why.”
“I’m sorry about your shoes.”
“They weren’t important. Back then, we were both learning who we wanted to be.”
“Please hold still again. Making the transarterial connections is not simple, but it is essential for complete communication. Clear and strong channels are forged with patience.”
“Do you remember the meal we had after that conference?”
“The food was terrible. It reminded me of our time in chem lab.”
“Very funny.”
“But that was when I first saw the you I now know. I saw that you had figured out who you wanted to be. I had too, and we matched-in philosophy and spirit. That made the idea of exploring the details of being together so exciting.”
“We’re almost done. Just one last anti-rejection inoculation to safeguard your connection from any biotic hesitation.”
“I hate needles.”
“Oh yes, much worse than the hand remover.”
“Ha. Finally, we’ll be together at last.”
“Yes, connected not just in spirit and philosophy but also in anatomy and physiology.” #
“Here they come.”
“What a tasteful coupler.”
“Why can’t you find someone to connect with, junior?”
“I hear they chose to have their hands disintegrated rather than kept in cryostasis. They must really be committed to each other.”
“I doubt it will last.”
“We should find out who did the coupling. We can recommend them to your cousin.”
“Quiet down, everyone. Let us begin.
We are gathered here today to bear witness to the most sacred of unions. As partners in all aspects of life, the betrothed commit to share a path forward.
By coupling their wrists, they pledge not to part, be they happy or distraught, joyful or angry, in synch or out of step. Life’s greatest chosen challenge offers them a chance for life’s greatest reward.
By mixing their bloodlines, they become one that is greater than two. They share each other’s immunities and susceptibilities, a physical reminder of their emotional goals. They plan to die in synchrony.
They have held each other’s hands, but now they will discover what it is like not to let go. To be compelled to always work together. To be granted access to all the peculiarities one used to have the freedom to hide. To be unable to run from the worst of each other. To share everything each is willing to see and to feel.
We see around us the two-handed, the one-handed, and the coupled – those who have yet to commit or never will, those who have committed but ultimately suffered decoupling, and those who still walk a coupled path—the unknowing, the knowing, and the learning. Today we convert two of the unknowing to learners. We shall see if their learning is lifelong. For that, we hope!”