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Copyright 2015 Christina M. Guerrero
DEDICATION
This is for my Love. RIP.
STORY BEHIND THE STORY
Remembering.
ABOUT THE DRAFTS
Draft Number One: Badly written.
Draft Number Two: Getting better.
I touched the fabric of his sweater and gently applied pressure in order to make a point. The fabric was around his arm, and I held on just long enough to feel the big bones of his forearm.
He stopped moving and looked into the distance, not quite at anything in particular.
And then a strange expression crossed his face ... as if he were listening to something.
He went still, and his face seemed to be more solemn than when we had first greeted each other, almost as if he were in church.
Can you hear that? he seemed to be saying with only his face.
I remember frowning, and feeling a faint sense of wonder.
Time flowed by us and around us. Time had brought us together in many ways before that moment. I could tell you each time he might have been around, long before we met, and certainly after he died. I could tell you when I knew I had been warned of his existence and presence, often with glaring signs, including my own beliefs that were solid when I was only a child: when I would meet the love of my life, what he would look like, how I would know.
Had anyone confronted me when I touched his forearm and asked what exactly did I hear, I would have said, “I hear the sound of us. The sound of our travels throughout time and the universe as we searched for each other, and as we got closer, and what it sounds like as we sit here, still acquaintances and searching for common ground.”
It was a strange thought. I had not known him long.
But there was no one else there except the two of us. As it had been probably since the dawn of time.
There was no one there except myself, as I gently touched his forearm. And his sudden cessation of movement as he processed this. His dear face as he registered this change in his world. And the tilt of my head as I tried not to stare, but did so anyway in an oblique and indirect way.
The next time our paths crossed, he seemed to be slightly more at ease, perhaps remembering this moment.
As we sat there, I heard the holy, reverent sound of us. The joyful, glorious sound of two souls finally reuniting, cherishing each second we could squeeze out of this lifetime.
I can hear us, still.
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