We were at the Renaissance festival in Washington Gardens; a beautiful southern park which sits along the banks of the Intracoastal Waterway. A place where you could lay your blanket and picnic under the canopy of ancient oaks, as pods of dolphins breech the surface and play in the blue green waters just a few feet away; an enchanted place to say the least. He’d taken me there when we were dating, and we’d returned each year for the past thirteen.

I left him alone for a short span of time, as I made my way to the water’s edge, to capture the moment in photos. Upon my return I noticed a woman sitting on our blanket beside him. I stopped for moment, observing them from afar; their conversation lively, their body language a little too familiar; the feeling in my belly an unwelcome one.

I approached slowly, and as if he felt my presence upon them, looked up and briefly met my eyes. She was mid-conversation, enthusiastically laughing and jovially pushing her body into his. I approached and politely said, “Excuse me, but I believe this seat is already taken.”

Her head shot around quickly, my words obviously startling her. Her eyes met mine and held them, filled with defiance and challenge, as if I should dare interrupt whatever was happening between them. I turned my gaze toward my husband, who had averted my eyes and was now looking toward the ground; a cowards stance, in every sense.

I took a deep breath as I drank her in completely; noting her age, far more advance than mine, the black leather vest and matching boots. Her jewelry was cheap and distasteful, hair poorly dyed, straight and stringy; her make-up outdated and haphazardly applied. A tawdry tramp if ever I’d seen one. And still she did not flinch. In fact, she leaned into him further; her hand wrapped around his forearm, offering support or protection, I couldn’t be certain; but refusing to relinquish her man nonetheless.

And in that moment, I was sickened and saddened; knowing full well that all was over. Not angry that he had met a woman with whom he connected on every level, but saddened and unable to believe that after the years we had spent that it should come to a close in deafening silence. I thought perhaps by now, he knew me well enough to know that my mind and heart are open and receptive to not only change, but the staunch belief that life is too precious to waste.

I walked to the edge of the blanket, slipped on my sandals, picked up my bag; and though my words were mounting into what would surely be an unpleasant eruption, I fought them with every ounce of my being and left them in silence.

My heart threatened to explode from my chest, my hands trembled and my legs were unsteady, but I squared my shoulders and held my head high, as I made my way toward the path; an unfamiliar path whose direction I hadn’t a clue, but vowed to follow even in this darkest hour.

I made it to the opposite end of the park then was forced to stop and steady myself against a tree. I took a deep breath, fighting back the tears; then suddenly I heard his voice, calling out to me from the distance, and before I knew it, his arms were embracing me…

“Baby, you slept through the alarm,” he whispered into my ear, as he nuzzled his face in my neck, pressing his warm, naked flesh against mine.

I was twenty-three at the time and thankful to be alive…with my leg intact! So, I sucked it up. Until recently when the pain shot from a continuous ten on a one – ten scale, to an excruciating fifty-three. And so began the arduous process, which will reach fruition tomorrow, with a four to six week recovery period. And therein lies the cause of my stress.

I don’t like going to the doctor for any reason, and I especially do not like surgery; PERIOD! This one, I have been told, will take approximately three hours. My pulse just quickened as I typed those words. Seriously!

It’s not the actual surgery that frightens me, but the anesthesia; being in an unconscious state, put there voluntarily by unnatural means, signing the papers giving permission, releasing the anesthesiologist from any and all responsibility. That just doesn’t work for me. Not to mention the fact that I’m prone to all sorts of unusual activity while in a slow wave or deep REM sleep, and so who knows how far one travels under general anesthesia. I know, I know…but I’m just saying…

Jone, this is a good one for you; can involuntary astral projection occur while in an induced unconscious state?

So, my trepidation reached an all time high this morning and my son, sensing it, was especially loving and attentive. The first time he kissed me goodbye was at the bathroom sink while I was brushing my hair; he told me he loved me and would miss me today and then gave me a kiss. I stepped back and looked at him oddly, to which he cocked his head to the side and gave what I can only describe as a knowing smile. For the scent he emitted was that of my late grandmother.

I loved her better than best. I loved everything about her, especially the way she felt in my arms when I hugged her, and that distinguishing scent that belonged only to her. It was a combination of her face powder, her lipstick, her perfume, her breath, her hair and her very essence. There was never another smell in the world that even came close to that comforting scent I knew and loved so well. Two more times he kissed me before he left and each time he smelled exactly like her.

And so this evening I find myself in an extremely calm and relaxed state; having received her message from beyond; sent through the purest and truest form of love; my child. I know that she loves me still, was able to cross the veil that separates this life from the next to tell me so. She was with me this morning and will be right there by my side tomorrow.

Amazing isn’t it, that the power of love knows no boundaries.

My loathing
Wouldn’t run
So
Deep

Too many used to be’s
Faded away with
Time

Not enough now’s
To sustain us
Into tomorrow

Image – Wings of dust

Days turned into weeks and then before he knew it, months had passed between them. What he’d first found endearing; the fact that she was the same as he had left her, so very long ago, suddenly began wearing on his nerves.

He sat across the table; watching, listening, unknowingly comparing; wondering how and why he’d ended up here again. So many years, so much life lived in between; and yet no growth or change, no matter how hard he tried, could he detect.

He noted their similarities; in physical appearance, as well as attitude. And as he looked at the elder, he could see exactly what she’d be in another twenty years; what she was turning into already.

The thought made him shudder; and he realized in that moment, that he wasn’t willing to compromise the man he had become, for the girl she would always be.

He could see how tired she was, that day he happened upon her alone in the café; and though he purposely took his thoughts elsewhere, ignoring her completely, he knew from her body language that he’d once known so well, there was something amiss; and he couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in her life that was causing such fatigue.

Years ago he’d gone away from her, removed her completely from the equation of his life; but that didn’t stop him, from on occasion, seeing her shadow pass across his wall. Each time it happened, his perception shifting; re-instilling those truths and beliefs he’d discovered while in the presence of her; a presence he once believed was easy to shake, though part of him secretly yearned to hold onto.

While his real life was constantly in the forefront of his thinking, somewhere in the back of his mind lingered the life they had known; that driving light, filled with her laughter, dimmed by her cries, exploding with their passion; bringing something magical to his world of sameness.

His ability to sense her presence from miles away, clouding his memory on sun-dappled days; the one constant, through the years that had remained; though he still wasn’t sure, if what he was feeling was real; or simply his imagination running wild, that caused him to linger, night after endless night. A vigil in the darkness, waiting for and willing her to come.

The rains came, followed by raging thunder and a fantastical lightening show, as he sat in the corner of the darkened room; waiting, watching, hoping; that she would not disappoint. He fell asleep in the chair somewhere around three, waking suddenly as a cool breeze, brushed gently across his flesh.

He opened his eyes and watched in silent fascination; as the misty shadow floated gracefully across the room; then as if willing it to happen, she slowly began to materialize.

She was wild-eyed in her misery, carrying the same tired and worn out expression he’d seen a few days before, etched across her beautiful face. He knew right then that he had called her to him; that she never would have come on her own. His heart overflowing, with the sudden feeling of guilt; for the pain he had caused, because of what together they had done.

He sat up a little straighter, unconsciously clinging to the arms of the chair; gathering courage, he spoke out to her. “I don’t blame you. I know you think I do; but I don’t. I never did.”

She turned slowly, casting her gaze upon him; the veil of her so thin, that he could see right through it. In the blink of an eye, the span of a breath, she was upon him; face-to-face, as they once comfortably lay. She hovered in front of him, weightless; though he could feel her pressing down on him; searching his face, seeking truth in his eyes; as a single tear, sparkling like a jewel, dripped from hers; landing as a raindrop, upon his naked thigh.

He wanted to tell her that he missed her; that he worried and wondered of her constantly. That their time spent together had not been in vain; that a part of her, in his heart, would always remain. And while the words he still could not muster, the one thing she never ran dry of; the truth she saw clearly, in his green aging eyes.

Of me
About me
In spite of me

Because
He knew me

Because
I let him

Because
I wanted him to

Like none other
Before or after

Deeper
Better

To the core

Then left to wonder
If he knew me
At all

“Who are you?” she heard the words escape her mouth; before her thoughts had a chance to register and stop her. His thick mane of hair, now silver like tinsel, fell casually over his shoulders. Stone wash jeans, slashed stylishly below the pockets; not purchased purposely, but naturally worn till the fabric frayed. Black tank top advertising the biker bar; obviously new, as she’d never before seen it; showing off his brown-as-a-biscuit tan, with that Native American tint of red. Her red man. Her Indian. A perfectly beautiful, unknown stranger.

“I’m your man,” he answered with certainty; swaggering confidently to where she sat on the sofa, “Come home to my baby.” She turned her head when he bent down to kiss her. Not sure why, not thinking about it twice. Uncertainty filling her mind, taking hold of her senses. Tears threatening to spill over, fighting hard to hold them back; disguise her true feelings, whatever the cost.

The gift of deception, wrapped in a pretty pink bow; always the one she gave unsuspectingly; coming back to haunt her, every bit of three-fold. Not what she asked for, but exactly what she deserves. That old bitch Karma, lingering in the wings…

Ten years devoted.
Ten years spent.
Irretrievable.
Broken.
Gone forever.

I entered through the familiar front door; the scent that was us overwhelmed and stopped me in my tracks. My eyes adjusted then focused in the dark, as familiar images and shapes appeared before me. I slowly walked from room to room; each containing different objects from various stages of our time together.

Our first living room, with hand-me-down sofa and chair; knick-knacks and pictures, arranged just as they had been. Even the flowers I’d picked from the field; beginning to dry, yet colorful in the blue glass vase.

I walked down the hall and another room appeared; another chapter displayed for my viewing. More of his things mingled with mine; his presence now obvious and prominent. The same wildflowers, faded now, but still beautiful through my eyes; the blue glass vase, a crack now in its side, simply added character, I remember thinking.

There was an entryway that led to a carport; our Tibetan Mastiffs, Marge & Homer, who I secretly called Rhett & Scarlett, obediently on their cushion in the corner. Both in dire need of baths and a nutritious meal; something other than what happened to be on sale. Scarlett looked up at me with those pitiful, sad eyes; as if to ask me why; the single word and loaded question that plagued me at the time; plagued us all. Rhett refusing to acknowledge me; having long since given up on me; that day I lay on the bathroom floor; Scarlett faithfully curled by my side, offering unconditional love and support; while Rhett stood looking from the door, his gaze as if to say, “who’s the coward now?”

There were boxes stacked to the ceiling in the far corner of the carport; waiting to be stored in the attic; something he always promised he was going to get to, but never did. For the simple fact that they contained my things; things I took with me wherever we happened to land; things that were sentimental, things he felt threatened by. And so they sat in that corner, exposed to the elements, until they finally began rotting away.

I remember the day I drug them to the curb on garbage day; one by one. I didn’t even have the heart to go through them; to be reminded of what they contained; to see what treasured possessions had been ruined and lost to me forever. Better to not remember, I told my self.

I walked back inside; looked to my left, then to my right; trying to decide which way to go; how to get out. There was no easy way; not then, not even in my dreams. There was, however, a light at the end of a long, dark hall; which I instinctively moved toward. As I progressed, I passed many more rooms. Some of which I stopped, stood in the doorway of, and gazed at with fond reminiscence; others I rushed past, with nothing more than a glance given. And that one in particular that I would have expected to run right past, I actually stepped into.

I stood just inside the doorway, the light at the end of the hall beckoning, as the scene before me ripped my heart apart; piece by broken piece. Framed works of art that once I had been so proud, hung in precarious positions throughout the room; not out of eclecticism, but sheer necessity; covering holes that had been punched, kicked or gouged in the walls. Markers of his anger, reminders of his horrible temper; hidden in plain sight.

Neon beer signs and alien figurines still made me cringe, and not a single book in sight, for that was nothing but a ridiculous waste of time. The stench of the homemade bong on the table in the corner; my good lemonade pitcher with a bottomless 2-liter bottle stuck inside; brown water and thick repugnant ganja residue covering the sides. The sound he made as he inhaled two full liters of smoke into his lungs, and the desperation in his eyes when he was forced to scrape the sides. The bong disappearing, new paraphernalia taking it’s place; diverting my gaze before the crack pipe and gun materialized.

I looked away, and there on the floor, in the corner by the loveseat, was my favorite Tommy Bahama bag. I walked over and picked it up, slowly unzipped it and looked inside. A half smoked pack of Marlboro Lights, a black and white composition book that I used for a journal back then; half the pages ripped out and the remaining filled with written lies to appease his insecure ego and get him the fuck off my back; little doodles on the pages, where he had left his mark, his way of letting me know he had been there, read my words and that nothing of mine would ever be sacred.

I removed the sparkly silver Lancome make-up bag my mother had sent me, pulled out the compact and opened the secret compartment in the bottom; and there it was, the light at the end of the tunnel; shining brightly in my hand, just as it always had done. I carefully removed the small, aged piece of paper and unfolded it, to reveal the message inside that had kept me sane, given me courage and one day eventually saved my life, quite literally.

“I’ll Love You Forever…”

I carefully refolded the note, but instead of putting it back where I’d found it, I slipped it in my pocket; thinking to myself, that he really does and undoubtedly will…love me forever. Just then I felt his arm slip comfortably around my waist. I turned to look and there he was; my beautiful husband, standing by my side, where he’d been all along, right from the start. I looked deep, into his smiling eyes; filled with happiness and love that would never be disguised.

We were silent for several minutes, as we stood in the doorway and gazed about the room. Remembering those tumultuous years when we’d only just met, the insanity I was living through and his desire to help. I spotted the small pottery bowl I’d made when I was a little girl; musing that it had actually survived. It’s pink, purple and blue hues faded with time. I walked over and retrieved it from its spot of safety, and inside lay the broken shards of my blue glass vase; that I didn’t have the heart to throw away, that was still beautiful, even in pieces, through my eyes.

I handed it to him, but the only thing he saw when he looked inside, were remnants of a broken heart, a shattered soul; in desperate need of healing, and he the one to do the mending; still beautiful, even when broken, through his eyes.

when I woke from the dream I found him curled at my back; two spoons in a drawer, with his arm around my waist. Offering comfort, with me always. Weathering life’s storms and the changing of the seasons.

Forgive my delayed response; not for lack of trying, but it seemed as if each time I sat to pen my reply, something or someone needed my immediate attention. I’m sure you understand and can relate.

You asked if you are allowed to be this happy…not only are you “allowed,” but you deserve such happiness. Everything in life happens for a reason, of that there can be no doubt. Every path we choose, every road we travel, will eventually lead us to the place we are supposed to be. But it is up to us, to have our eyes open and recognize that place when presented to us. It appears you have done just that.

Yes, Ophelia, there will be times when you feel as if the separation will bring about your undoing, but this will only strengthen your bond and aide your determination in bringing to fruition that day when you are no longer forced to leave each others side; a day, I must say, that has been long in coming.

From the beginning…

How clearly I remember; how I longed to experience that love which you found; how many years and miles I had to travel to find it; and the devastation you felt when it abruptly ended. No words or actions could comfort, or take away the pain that assaulted and threatened to consume. But even then, I did not believe it was over; nor did you. Women’s intuition so finely tuned, at such young ages.

Never second-guess your self, Ophelia; and never let it be said that true love does not overcome and conquer all. I’ll await your reply and be with you every step of your journey; whenever you need or want me there.

In peace and love,
Anastasia