I see him sometimes in my mind.
Once I was walking, thinking of nothing in particular, and out of nowhere he just came into my head: A fellow lifting my mangled, scarred hand and kissing it.
On Thursday I saw him again.
I was on a swing for the first time in years. I felt the rush of flying forwards with my feet off the ground, the wind in my face. It was so carefree. I’d forgotten the sensation of tilting all the way back and watching the branches of an old oak sway above, the leaves bright green in the sunset.
But the rope was too small, and soon my fingers ached. My arthritis shot pain down my fingers and across my wrists.
Then he was there, in my head. He closed my hands around a thick rope of a swing I knew he’d made for me, and he said, “Does it hurt?” And it didn’t.
I feel like Beauty, who dreams of her prince at night but does not know him when she wakes. Who lives in the reality of imprisonment and loneliness but dreams of a friend.
I don’t know if he exists. I doubt he’ll ever make me a swing or even kiss my hands. But I am okay with that.
At times, I feel like Marianne, crying, “There is no one I can truly love!” But most of the time… I am okay.
I love the world. I love my friends. I love my family.
And I think, perhaps, that is enough for me.
(I hope people will not think I am insane. I am probably just very silly and read far too much classic literature and young adult fiction.)