We lay there together, tall grass and red poppies surrounding us, looking up at the clouds and electrically blue sky, neither saying anything. It was enough to be in each others’ company, to know the other was within an arm’s reach. The smell of the field, of the country air, of her perfume, all dancing around my senses. It had been a long time since we had last done this and I was unsure as to why. I turned my head to ask her.
And I remembered.
As I lay there looking at her, at the translucence of her being, it all came flooding back to me.
It had been three years and still I found myself forgetting from time to time. Forgetting that she was gone. Taken far too soon and far too quickly. All I had left was the essence of her, a small piece of her being that somehow managed to remain behind.
My friends and family all thought me mad when I first mentioned it. They could not see her. Why, I do not know. Perhaps as a final secret shared between the two of us, something to be kept from the rest of the world. Or perhaps I was truly mad. Either way, I downplayed it and, after some time, it seemed to fade from their memories for the most part, though I still occasionally catch concerned glances and whispers.
I can’t blame them. If anyone had told me they were seeing, speaking, touching the spirit of their lost love several years ago, I would have surely thought them to be profoundly disturbed by their loss. Now, I know better. I know when the bond is strong enough, even death cannot truly keep two people apart. She is my proof.
And so we lie here, looking at the sky, searching for fleeting glimpses of what could have been in the clouds overhead, her hand in mine, with a touch as gentle as a breeze.