I hold my finger on the place where we left off. It was a taciturn day, and us at odds. No matter, I thought. In our version of paradise, all will spin right round, and we'll be off again, adventuring, our sails filled with fresh hope. But that isn't what happened. There was a fall. From grace, from innocent love, from sincere enjoyment, we tumbled headlong into deception, horrid fascination, and instant abandonment; and me, limping, maimed, bruised, and heartbroken.
My body knew before I did. It disconnected in a blind flash, its wobbly legs pumping down so many, many reverberating steps. Were I to go back, all these years later, there it would be – de-escalating in utter detachment, forever ascending by remote control – stuck in a strange loop.
Were I to remove my finger, I'd lose my place in our story, the last day I felt whole even though alone most of our time together. We've grown closer since. As they say, we've matured, like a fine wine or well-aged Cantal. We savour our leisure. We're grateful for ordinary days, for quiet moments spent together. I wouldn't dream of showing you where we fell all those years ago, afraid to shock you with the realization I'm only a ghost of my former self, a disembodied wraith.
My body, half a world away – love delicately balanced in outstretched arms, forever ascending; forever descending, grief-stricken and absent-minded – unable to put its finger on where we left off, caught in an Escher-like tableau.
YOU ARE READING
Out of this Earth
PoetryMusings on the luminous sometimes whimsical world of human love: Bring your heart to the Garden for a feast of Earthly delights but come prepared for unexpected twists and dark turns along the way.
