That was the struggle of our story, in essence. Two families trying every day to be one. Loving each other in an unqualified manner that was, somehow, always qualified by others. Forging ahead to write a new page which was always tinged at the corners with a slow burn, a curling edge of the paper, where a bright flame was licking at the heart of our story.
We shared days of overflowing happiness wrapped in bows that were later found, crumpled along with the wrapping paper in a dusty corner. A carefully constructed box that once held treasures was tipped on its side, contents shattered, pieces strewn about the hardwood floor.
Words, words like sharp knives or words like cozy hugs. As attentive as a loving pet. As hurtful as a scratch from that frightened animal.
When life lies in balance, secrets spill out on pillowcases in darkness. They lie on the cotton thread case like refrigerator alphabet letters, plastic, hard and cold. Words are muffled screams emitted as whispers. These words are wisps of light in the gray of early morning. They are hot coffee on a cold morning, too hot and somehow comforting at the same time. Words are strangling-hold-on-too-tight-we-are-falling-apart moments uttered in lovely desperation.
You weren't there with us then. You aren't allowed to write yourself into the story. Don't add a post-script or even your "perhaps it was all for the best".
When we first met, I wrote: "On this starry night you stand on the dock by the river and the moon strikes its bold path to light your face. At this moment, I know you are true. I know we are true." No one can erase those words and the sentiment they hold. Time cannot erase those words or the emotion we felt. That was the start of a story that was only ours- Ours and those who will always remain ours, holding the memories in a secret space only five of us share. We cannot second guess the font we chose or the way we punctuated each sentence. The story has been written. I know one thing to be true, we shared a long chapter in a too short story.
