She Was Here (1182)
I loved her. People always pause here, like you are. They look at me expectantly, like I’m going to qualify it. You know, waiting for “like a mother,” “a sister,” “my best friend,” “a lover.” They, maybe you too, need it put in some category, so it all makes sense. So maybe they could have loved her? Or they weigh it against their loves. Place it in the right box, so all of our lives just make sense. But I can’t do that. Did it make sense? Is love supposed to? I can tell you this. She was never “one town over.” When she was with me, she was there. Really with me. She was never in the next season. She was the hope of spring. The playfulness of summer. The melancholy of fall. And the peace of winter. That was her kindness. And oh she was kind. Please don’t say, “oh, I’m sure you were” when I say this. Please don’t. I hope I was kind. “What is it like?” I would ask her. “I have no secrets,” she would say, and she would laugh. Which was the secret itself, perhaps. The joy of her being. I can still hear it. The laughter in the trees. And it jumps into my heart and fills it... one town over from the next. How I loved her. It was her. Not me. She was love. I was lucky enough to live in in it. I hope she thought of me that way, even a little... I mean, as kind. What a gift she gave me, showing me, how someone can be like that. No, don’t look at me like you’re sure. Who can be sure? Love isn’t certainty. It’s only a presence. She was here. And I loved her.