Him

I know it’s ridiculous, silly, absurd. I can’t let go of the hope that one day I’ll find him. People argue that love at first sight is all about looks, but I’m sure that when I see him, I’ll know. One glance locks our eyes and with that furtive fervent gaze, we both know that our remaining lives will be spent together. It is though we are dancing at the Bougeviel, he intently searching my face, scanning it, trying to make me smile, and I, wistfully smirking, letting him know that no one is in control. Our love is deep and shared and unselfish.

But even though this love is overwhelming, it somehow brings simplicity into both of our lives. We make each others’ days so much easier, each others nights so much less lonely.

And we will have a family. We’ll grow old together, always playfully flirting, still smiling at each other when we have no teeth. I don’t think we will be perfect parents (such things rarely exist), but we’ll at least be fair and kind and funny. Having a child, bringing life into the world will only bring us closer. But the kids will grow up and, I guess, so will we. But when I’m seventy, I dearly hope that I can remember the crazy things we did fifty years ago.

I imagine that he’ll be the first to go. No more waking up next to my other half. No more witty banter over eggs and coffee. Those late night talks about taxes and canned corn and Steinbeck will become soliloquies. His hands gently pushing my hair out of my face, his arm brushing against mine as we make dinner, his ear pressed against the chest of our firstborn will all be nothing more than my memories. I miss him already and we haven’t even met.

His death does not mean the death of our love. He won’t haunt my dreams at night or torment my every move at day. He will still comfort me and listen to me. I know he’ll still be there.

I wonder where he is right now, what he’s doing and what he’s thinking.

Most of all, I wonder if he exists.


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