O. and I had a lot of fun in the beginning, and we continued to nurture our love through the years. We had funny little rituals that made us feel connected. Some may sound strange, like how we’d hum when the other put their finger in our ear (not wet willy style), saying “Thank you, instrument,” as we lightly kissed one another. Or the tiny, quick inhalations we’d take around the face as the other squealed, “Doggy sniffs for me!” All of these things, however, made us feel more us, if you know what I mean.
For a woman who never thought she’d find love again, to be so completely head over heels somehow made the world less confusing. I begged for some understanding of what had happened to the first, and only man I’d loved until O. Then, the universe opened its wide, gaping maw and told me: “Look, your life isn’t over, stop acting like you’re dead.”
O. showed me how to live again, as big and incomprehensible as that might seem to some. He helped me restart my long-stilled heart and gaze in amazement at it beating in time with his own. I still remembered the loss; I still could see the scars, but they were less distinct and blurred around the edges.
O., later, would say that he didn’t feel like I had ever really let go of K. Looking back, I think he was right. Perhaps I did, or do, hold too tightly to the past, perhaps I didn’t recover from the trauma as well as I thought. The point, though, is that I try, still, to listen to what the universe has told me, to really see the people in front of me and feel the love they offer without looking back, tethering myself to what is no longer here.
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