I never knew that holding someone’s hand could be an empowering gesture, until I met you.
I think of that day we walked down the hill, heading towards Hawrelak Park, but not actually heading to the park itself; we were just wandering. And I told you the sun was in my eyes and you stood just steps ahead of me, to help block me from the sun’s rays. Standing in your shade, I was mesmerized. I thought of the amazing things throughout history – literary history, literal history, pop music history – that people have done for unrequited love. I could see all these things just by staring into your shadow as I stepped in it.
My psychic told me that someday, I would see a house and just know this house like the back of my hand; that I would just see the front door and know I had been there before, and know my bedroom was upstairs at the very back of the house. She told me on that day, I would be brave enough to go to the front door and tell the people who lived there that it used to be my house then go upstairs and find my bedroom and glance at the window sill and see my initials carved into its cheap, old wood. It won’t be a house I lived in during my life now; but one I lived in, in a past life. If this ever happens to me, I will run my finger along the initials and recall the time when you and I were first married and you carried me up the stairs, placed me onto the undressed mattress and made love to me; and as you were writing your latest play, I enrobed myself in a makeshift top sheet dress and sat beside the window, absent-mindedly glancing at the moon – a clichéd, overwrought gesture reeking of simplistic romanticism – and noticed a small, twisted nail sitting in between the window pane and the screen. And I took that nail and carved my initials deeply into the window sill. You asked me what I was doing and I said I was making an indelible mark; so I could remember the night forever.
You’re so far away now – you’re sitting in your living room watching a movie with your common law wife and your dust has settled revealing a most beautiful life without me. Whenever I hear the sound of wine pouring into a glass, I know that all the sights and sounds and smells and feelings that accompany new love, even when I find that love with someone else, will be first associated and reminiscent of you.