Do you remember? Perhaps the better question is, can you forget???
My mind will not let me. I'm a knower. Like Layla Miller. A mutant among a sea of humans. But I can swim. For hours. In the cold Cape Cod ocean.
My once muted heart cries out. You hear it. As clearly as I do. The sound seeps, weeps into my voice. Into yours. Leaks out of our eyes. Salty drops of soul leave a watery trail on our cheeks. You made mine full. So often, the action is permanently etched in the folds of my skin. A road map to joy. And, pain.
I've never felt such pain. Not even with cancer. Elson Floyd agrees. He was a Darling 20 miles from here. He tells me there are no accidents. Like our shared connection. Not yours and mine. His. A farmer, 3,000 miles away. Husbandry of the Universe.
Floyd was a Pisces, too. Born in a Leap Year. Like the movie. The next one is in nine months. What do you suppose will be born into the world this time around? A daughter? A son? Mine is always angry. Ghosts from our past. My phantoms are more literal than his though. We are like twin flames, the boy and I. Pure fire from the heavens. All of my children burn bright. Hunters, rams, lions...a holy trinity. Or, they will be. Like me. And, him.
Jesus and the Cross haunt me. So does Dr. King. He gave me a message I cannot remember. It was a year ago. In Atlanta. After Maya Angelou died. After I cried. All day. For her. For you. You said you were sorry. But you never said it again. She smiles at me now, puts a dry wrinkled hand on my wet smooth cheek and says, "Oh my dear, he never will...."
The office chair. The one you shook. With me in it. Do you remember? I do. My hand on your chest, asking why. Your eyes full of sorrow. But not sorry. I was though. To see how she affected you. Even then. It was frightening. Still is.
I saw it last week. The chair. Went back to the beginning. Before the finality of our end. It is final, too. There is someone waiting. I thought you were him, the way you thought she was me. Eleven-point-six years after your first mistake, you made another. Abandoned a six-pointed star. There was one in the cosmos last week. Jupiter is in Leo on this run. But In eleven-point-six years, it returns. In Pisces. Will your Jupiter experience mirror mine? You will be exactly my age. And history repeats....
We are so foolish. Thee and me. Destined to circle each other. Endlessly. Mere inches apart but never closer. Like Zeno's paradox. Meg Ryan explained it to a tall mechanic. He reminded me of you. Their love was written in the stars. As was Jupiter's epic journey. Your ruling planet and mine. Eleven-point-six years apart. Exactly our distance, too.
"It's really you," echoes in spacetime.
I woke to your soul's even bluer eyes looking in mine. Months ago. His hand was on my belly. And just last week, he stood in front of me as I sat on the bed, my gaze drawn to the chair. That damned chair. Eighteen months ago. Eighteen means life. I caught you leaving. Were you leaving? You said you were getting a #Monster. I was stupid enough to think you meant the beverage.
I was stupid. But it will never be enough. I'll always want more. More air. To expand my lungs. To fill my chest. To create a breeze. For that swing you made me. The one in your workshop. I miss seeing you there. But I don't miss seeing the screaming man in the window. Or, the little drowned girl trying to hand you a button over and over again.
Life is...interesting. My former professor told me he wrote the word in the margins of essays when he wanted it to look as though he read them. I read you. Wrote you. Six months before I met you. That story ended badly, too. But I've learned. The players are interchangeable.
What do you think?
People will think. In the pages of my books. Translated onto silver screens. Across the world. Dr. Angelou smiles that smile of hers. She whispers, "BAFTA." Britain loves me. I love him, too. My Ray of Sunshine. With the Victory of a Hugo. He is a ghost hunter, too. But not an invisible one, like you. He calls me "Gorgeous," and "Lovely," and nicknamed me, "Babes."
I am not quite happy. Not yet. But I will be. That's a promise. I made it to you. Like all the others, I will keep it. To myself. For myself. I will not stop this time. I will not stop.
I. Will. Not. Stop.