The wind whistles past my ears. It's grey and cold out; one of the few times nature has perfectly mirrored my mood. The mountains hide behind a dewy film. I can feel the rain approaching. The clouds want so desperately to rain, like I want so desperately to cry. I lay in a large field, my face open to the expanse above. I stretch out my limbs as far from my body as I can. As if this would get me closer to you. The grass that surrounds me twitches nervously in the wind, like I did when I found out. I wonder if I lay here long enough, will I become part of the ground? If I become part of the ground, do I get to be near you? Somewhere far off a bell chimes. I sit up and watch the birds that are perched on the telephone wires, waiting. Watching. I play with the frayed ends of my jeans, twisting and twirling the soft threads between my thumb and index finger. In my other hand I clutch the flowers. I had forgotten about them. Sad and suffocated, some of them have started to wilt. I look around. No one. I dig a small hole in the ground and place the flowers in it. My dirty fingernails place the earth over the flowers and as I stand to walk away, my muttered prayers are lost in the wind. It abruptly stops as I say "I wish I knew where you were buried." A soft breeze brushes the hair from my eyes, like your living hand once did.
Later
12/6/01It has been 2 years, 6 months and 19 days since you left. It's been too long. I still talk to you--my hushed utterances are never enough for others to hear. I see you from time to time, though not recently. Your smile used to flash in lightning storms and each day I could see your eyes reflected in mine. Sometimes the passing breeze brings your scent and I hold back the tears. Although in pictures you never look directly at the camera, I feel your eyes burning from behind the cover of photo albums. Pictures of you are burned into my mind--for so many nights I'd fall asleep on top of those photo albums; you are captured in fading images. Your name stings my ears, for I cannot bear to hear it without your lisp wrapping around the "sh." I find that I have so much to say but the words that adequately express my feelings have not yet been conceived. I have gotten used to the shadows that appear when no one else is around. I'm used to seeing a twinkling star that follows me in the nighttime. I'm used to feeling your gentle, translucent hands guiding me onwards. And as I write this now, I think I can feel you reading over my shoulder, your chin resting on the side of my neck. Your imagined breath is tickling my ear and even though I know what I will see, I turn around to embrace the emptiness. You invisibly wipe away the tear that escapes past my shut lids--they remain shut because then I see the actions that I can feel. I know you're not here, but I like to think I can feel you.
Sullivan Ballou once said to his wife Sarah: "If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they love, I shall always be with you on the brightest day and the darkest night…and when the soft breeze fans your cheek it shall be my breath. Or the cool air, your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by…do not mourn me dead. Think I am gone and wait for me, for we shall meet again."
I love you and miss you.
