When I close my eyes, your memory feels like an ethereal type of magic.
An intentional, heartbreaking melody that renders my rough, outer edges into a soft lullaby no one else has witnessed.
No soul knows what happened.
The sheer terror. The restless uncertainty. The questionable reality. The sexual tension. The blossoming tenderness. The mischievous playfulness. The never-ending chase.
Your calloused, broad hand at the small of my back.
My small, gently laden hand at the base of your neck.
A secret I dare not share with anyone—sharing would ruin the magic that lies deep in the heart of the secrecy.
“You’re madder than the Mad Hatter,” they would say. “Completely off your rocker.”
They might not believe me. I do not care about that.
Those undeniably sumptuous 13 nights saved my life.
I don’t want them to know who you are, where you came from, what you do, and what you did to save my messy, shattered life.
I’m convinced that God intentionally showed up to place you beside me so that I might survive.
“Survive what?” they would ask.
The extreme torture, the pitiful sorrow, the seething anger, the paralyzing fear, the irreplaceable loss, the unbearable anguish, the stagnant grief, the utter confusion, the repeated regret, and the uncontrollable tears.
“Were you hallucinating?” they would ask. No.
“Delusional thinking?” No.
Hallucinations and delusional thinking render a person incapable of functioning in the real world.
No. I was acutely aware of what we were doing.
I woke up each morning, for 13 consecutive days, to a delightful cup of coffee whilst traipsing across the front lawn to pick up the daily newspaper, carelessly thrown toward the front doorstep by the newspaper deliverer.
How deliciously confusing it felt. Every night, my lack of sheer confidence toward the notion of you returning never ceased to fail.
I worried. I fretted. I twisted the strands of my wet, fine hair into spiral knots.
I wanted more.
Although I fretted, worried, and twisted my hair into knots, you showed up for 13 miraculously mysterious nights.
There was always the lead-up. Your details wrapping themselves around my listless legs, my uneven torso, my broken collarbone, my beating chest, my f*cked up head, and lastly, my wretchedly shattered, bitterly beating heart.
Yet, you consistently convinced me to open up every night—to you only.
On that 13th night, I stood in a white, cable-knit sweater while you tossed snowballs at my head. I laughingly ducked and weaved.
You turned your head to look at the log cabin in a wooded area nearby. I looked at you and you looked back at me.
I knew that would be our last night together, and I would never see you again.
It’s the 14th day, and I’m awake.