Who is she? This woman I fell in love with seven years ago? We play supporting roles in each other’s lives. We wound each other in ways no one else could, deep in each other’s heart. We live in the brightest hopes and most painful broken dreams of each other. We are each the sun to the garden of the other. She speaks and my ear is a basket gathering petals. She is the child in the night, sleeping under a roof of stars and never entirely comfortable in a house again. She is the cat purring by my chest, full of love. She is a kite that flies out beyond my grasp, never entirely mine. Never tamed or owned or fitting within one role or name or way of being in the world.
She adores me. Her devotion is terrifying. She wraps her life around me, her hopes and belief in the future. She’s tender and generous. She forgives.
She hurts me. I live in the shadows of her wounds, in the debris left by everything that shattered and starved when she was excommunicated from a world where there was enough food, love, safety, and hope.
We dream new dreams. This is the first challenge after loss. Without new dreams there is no life.
We grieve. We learn how to say goodbye, how to let go and hold on. How to let go over and over again in a thousand little ways, like prayers for the future to be worth living for.
We own the scars. We find pride in them, we hold them tightly. We find the world ended but we are still here. We live with our mistakes and we do better.
We reach into the gap between dreams and reality and we do the work that bridges it. The hard and glorious work of being liberated from the past. To expunge the shame and agony. To let the memories burn down from raging fires, to coals, at last to cool ash.
She blesses me with her kisses and her silences, her fingers restless tapping my skin like rain on a window pane or a broad leaved plant. She holds my heart. All my world has been planted in her chest, birthed through her love. She gave me my daughters. She remembers the trees for me. She is my love.