Forever
My dear Evangeline,
One or the other of us should burn these words, for some things cannot leave here. Nor can they be said aloud. But I must pour them from me, or I will drown.
As I write, you slumber across the room. So gentle, so still. You could be a goddess cast in marble if not for the warmth radiating from you. Your gold honey hair pools around your face, contentment pulling at the corners of your mouth. Sleep on, Eva. The morning is coming too quickly.
And what shall we even do in the morning? Slip home and pretend nothing has changed? Greet our husbands when they come home themselves?
What will we do on Sunday after Service? Will you smile at me and call me your dear? Will your tone sound coolly familiar, as if we are only two acquaintances sharing a gesture? Will you lean in just a bit too close? Will you avoid my eyes?
Ah, your eyes. The thought of them makes me weak. Tempest green, like the summer storm that rolled over yesterday afternoon. Lightning tore apart the skies as I curled around you. I feared that storm like I used to fear your eyes. Until you showed me that I, too, am a storm.
You gave me color again. Passion. Woke me from a lifeless gray I did not know I was inhabiting. You live with such joy that it overflows to everyone around you. And if I keep even one breath of that joy, my life will be better for it.
I often wonder what I have given you. Whether you felt the same shiver the first time our hands brushed. I remember it precisely: at Richard and Leanne's house. You were shaving nutmeg onto our eggnog when I reached for the cinnamon. It felt like touching snow, sharp and pure. Is that why you nicked your finger on the grater? You laughed so graciously as you washed the blood away.
That was too long ago. Six years we have spent circling each other. Sometimes closer, sometimes far away. Perhaps it was inevitable that we would one day crash into each other--not the glancing blows of accidental closeness--but a direct, all-encompassing collision. I only wish it had come sooner.
What if I had kissed you that day when Leanne stepped into the dining room? Pulled you close to me and tucked that loose strand of hair behind your ear? Would the last six years have felt less empty? Not that I can regret them. Those same years gave me my boys and, of course, your sweet Daphne. And our lives have been happy enough.
But let me not think of that now, for I cannot quite bring myself to feel guilty. This cabin, this weekend, exists outside of our lives. Here, we are hidden away from our own sins. For something this vast, this bright, cannot be wrong. You could never be wrong.
And imagine the dance we danced to get here. Our unsteady waltz of pleasantries laced with cautious questions. "Did you need a recipe for chocolate cake? It's not one I share with everyone."
Or slipping a note inside a borrowed prayer book: "Psalm 71 made me think of you.”
“Though you have made me see troubles, many and bitter, you will restore my life again; from the depths of the earth, you will again bring me up."
And oh, what many and bitter troubles we have cast on each other. My thoughts have so often been clouded with fear, uncertainty, and doubt. There have been too many nights colonized by the dread of discovery or mourning a thousand endings that can never come to pass. We cannot have forever, so I will be glad for the moments we do.
Ah, you're stirring already. So, I'll steal these final seconds to say I love you. I love you. I love you.
Your,
Clara
"Where are you, sweet?" Your voice wafts through the air from the bedroom. "Come back to me." Your silky tenor still enraptures me, and I must obey.
"Coming," I call back to you, folding the letter along well-worn creases. The paper has grown fragile with time. I bring it to my lips, for these words are more precious than you know.
"Have you been awake long? The sun isn't up yet." You stretch as I lean against the doorframe.
"Not long," I reply. "I just put the coffee on." I walk to you and lay a kiss, gentle, on your forehead. "It shouldn't be a minute."
You pull me closer, meeting my lips with your own. Feather soft, then fiercer. Desire binds us together as I fall back into bed.
Later, we sit in the kitchen nook, sipping lukewarm coffee. Your gaze unfocused out the window, the ocean laid out beyond. You have always loved this cabin and its secluded tranquility. That is what brought us here the first time.
"Do you remember..." your head turns a degree at the sound of my voice. You're not one to look back. Memory is more complicated for you. More painful.
"Of course, I remember." Your smile reflects off the glass with a soft sadness. I find your hand with mine to bring you back into yourself. Out of the past.
Time has always flowed unevenly here, so it felt like a second and a lifetime when a knock came at the door. Your eyes flashed with fear until I stood saying, "I'll see who it is."
"Peter," he said. "I live just about a mile down the road." He shrugged good-naturedly. "Heard someone bought this place, so thought I'd say hello and welcome."
Jubilation flooded my face. "Why yes," I said. "I'm Eva. My wife Clara and I just moved in. We have been stealing away here for years, so we couldn't resist when it went up for sale. This is the perfect place to spend forever."
Peter nodded his agreement.
