It snowed on that day too. Each delicate lace, each immaculate flower stood witness as we passed along beneath the iron boughs holding alight their kerosene flowers. One entity under a single umbrella conjoined in a latticework of fingers, which, I recall, had already taken upon their icy disposition. I did not address it. When you were too weak to even hold the umbrella, I should have known, though, I suppose, I am glad I did not
When you were confined by your condition, I did not think much of it then. A simple cough meant a week’s worth of rest. Gradually, as a week became a month, and longer still, I began to greedily horde each breath as if I could somehow transfer my warmth into the deep winter inside your body, where even the light of the hearth could not reach.
And, every night, the snow crowded on the windowsill to glimpse your radiance. Our hands still entwined, we watched the embers, like perfect atoms of amber, flicker into memory. I was a sultan, bathed in the gold that reflected from your face, rarer and more precious than all the lands of Siam. Then came the day when I became a pauper, and you, you became as delicate and immaculate as the myriad white fey that drifted by the window.
It snowed on that day too. As I, half a being, an incomplete soul, fled into the white abyss, I saw the street lamps. At each one, I heard your voice; every poem, every nuance of conversation whispered returned. Like a permanent record etched into the metal of the poles. I saw it, the abandoned umbrella, still propped up against the trunk of the illuminating tree, undisturbed these many months. My fingers closed around the handle, drawing in your essence. Then, quickly, I readied the rope.
For a second, I floated. And as the darkness stretched its wings over me, I saw above me the same, perfect atoms of amber. I was whole once again, conjoined in a latticework of fingers.
Were you crying too?
