She Pushed The Gardener Away And Called

I Was Staring To Learn How To Forget The Things That Made Me Sad. It Was Like A Charm You Followed Step-by-step, Collecting And Blending The Ingredients, Placing Everything In Its Proper Place, Reciting The Incantation. It Was The Magic Of Forgetting.

At First We Raced Through Space, Like Shadows And Light; Her Rants, My Raves; Her Dark Hair, My Blonde; Black Dresses, White. She's A Purple-black African-violet-dark Butterfly And I A White Moth. We Were Two Wild Ponies, Dawn And Midnight, The Wind Electrifying Our Manes And Our Hooves Quaking The City; We Were Photo Negatives Of Each Other, Together Making The Perfect Image Of A Girl.

The Circus Tent Was Flowing Pale In The Rain Like A Fleshy Flower Lit From Within. It Seemed To Bloom In The Downpour. Drops Of Rain Caught On Rafe's Eyelashes, Blinding Him As The Circus Light Struck Them. He Groped For The Flap, That Slit In The Fabric That Would Reveal Her To Him. She Was On The Rope Again, Her Skirt Flashing With Tiny Mirrors, Hair Braided With Petals. He Looked Up At Her, Dizzy With It, Seeing Her Face Framed In The Parasol. There Were Bluish Shadows Around Her Eyes.

I Dreamed Of Being A Part Of The Stories—even Terrifying One, Even Horror Stories—because At Least The Girls In Stories Were Alive Before They Died.

I Believe We Recover From Loss By Facing The Loss, Grieving, Going Deep Inside Ourselves (hopefully With A Guide) And Re-emerging To Live And Love Again.