The irony was hardly lost upon him, as a writer or a man,
that he had misapprehended entirely his own life story. Remained fixed, in
chapter and verse, in the bedrock gospel of his own heart, as the denouement
had eased past. She was long gone. Wasn’t it supposed to be easier by now? Wasn’t
time supposed to help?
Time.
He was its supplicant and its fool. She had moved on. Long
ago, and far. But not time nor reason nor even the most constituent flickers of
self-preservation, held a candle to his truth. It wasn’t just that everything reminded
him of her; everything was her. She
was the love of his life: not until the next one, not until he’d lost her, not contingent
upon having her, not contingent upon anything at all. And so time lent not the
slightest refuge, but served rather, with each passing moment, to merely strengthen
his resolve.
Not to one day win her back, for she was never his to claim.
But to simply love her. That if on one far day she called upon him, he would
not fail her. He would stand his post. And she would see that he’d been
standing it for time immemorial. I have
been here all along, he would tell her. And
will always. All you need do is reach out your hand, and mine will find it. Stop
and hear the wind, and in it, my whisper. Read my words—these words—here, now,
and for always—for they are spoken for you, from that heart long since given
over. That heart whose inscription is yours, and yours alone. Indelibly,
eternally. The book lays open, the page unturning, and even if it should, the
next shall read likewise, and all in turn. Live your life, sweet girl, and if
you may find it in somewhere within you, take it into your own heart that you
are so very much loved…
