Dreams are illustrations... from the book your soul is writing about you ~ Marsha Norman
In that case, my soul has quite the imagination since it has written so many amazing characters into being. I’ve met you before. In my dreams. And once I’d dreamt you, meeting you was inevitable. There are no chance encounters. I’m sure you’ll agree…
So when you told me about the girl you one loved whose name spoke of submission to Him while she, herself would not, I nodded. I’d heard your story before. In a dream…
When you told me about your anguish at losing your mother, I ran a thumb across your knuckles, as I squeezed your hand. Our loss found echoes within one another…
When you told me about your drug habit. The rush a high would bring. The clarity. In that moment my own vision sharpened.
When you told me what it was like to lose everything. Everything. But…your faith, I lent you an extra spoon, hoping that together we could move the crushing mountain of debt.
When you told me about cleaning up your act. How staying clean finally brought you to your knees, I heard the echo of your sobs. I’d heard the real ones in a dream.
When you held your baby girl for the first time in your arms, felt like you’d just been handed an entire fragile universe, I felt your heart expand. Ours are but one, are they not?
When you told me about your first primary school crush…the colour of her hair…those ‘priceless butterflies’ I blushed. Felt eleven again.
When you told me about your first sexual encounter. How you fell off the bed, I laughed. How different was it from my own, locked out, and in a car?
When you told me about how he couldn’t love you even when you loved him. How he made you feel less in that moment, I compared your scar to mine, found them to match. Mine, a silvery sliver beside the raw red that is yours.
When you asked me to create an epic romance with you, one of many you’ve moulded in your years of marriage, I gently declined. You were not that in my dream.
So while you have chosen to leave. You have carved me out of your life. You pass me in hallways, nod politely - I’m the stranger you once knew. You do not speak to me. There are spaces between our words. Spaces that speak.
You visit often. Sit around a table with me. Share coffee. You write me e-mails that make my heart soar. Give me things to smile about. Keep me up into the wee hours of the morning chatting about life. You love me, as I love you, exquisitely. Perfectly.
To call you friend would lessen you. Lover would be a lie. You are the space between the two. And we were meant to meet…