We were almost exactly the same age, twins practically,
metaphorically. Born fifteen days apart, I came under the
sign of the Crab, ruled by the moon and twice as fickle, she
was a Lioness of Leo, brazen as the sun. And when I died,
a little of her fire went out, I know, because I saw it go.
We’d lived our childhoods a few miles apart, never once
meeting until adulthood. We’d both spent our summers in
the salty Atlantic waves, our winters wishing for snow days
that rarely came. Of all those Virginia State Fairs and Pungo
Strawberry Festivals and Nags Head vacations and school
trips to Jamestown, had we ever waited in the same
restroom queue? Maybe she was the feisty redhead who
beat me to the unicorn on the carousel that one time. Maybe
we’d each bought a cotton candy from that stand at the zoo,
the one by the camels. White Dogwood blossoms. Jet noise.
Hand-cooked peanuts. Tunnel traffic. Emotionally
dysfunctional families. We eventually forgot that we hadn’t
actually grown up together. And when I died, parts of her
died too, I know, because I saw them leave. I was dreaming
when it happened, when death came, and the transition was
smooth, seamless, because I was flying in the dream and
suddenly, I am flying to her, and there she is, asleep in
her own bed, a thousand miles from where I started, and I
think how lovely to dream of her, to be here after so long.
And then a dog is licking my hand, and I recognize him,
the dog that died last year, her dog, now wagging an
ethereal tail and licking my ethereal hand, and I see the
dream for what it is. And I look at her, I really see her there,
somehow sleeping tangled up in the sheets, impossibly
contorted, blissfully snoring, drooling a dark spot on the
pillow, beautiful. And her aura, of course it’s pink, obviously,
the brightest fuchsia, glowing like northern lights, pulsing a
little and sounding electric. And it isn’t strange at all that I’m
here because we always were like magnets, and I realize,
now, that the pull, the persistent tugging, had always been
there, underneath everything, even before we met, but I’d
been stuck, nailed down or glued to the ground, weighted,
tethered. In the morning, the phone rings, and she wakes to
see my number on the screen, and she smiles. But someone
else’s voice speaks when she answers, and I watch as the
light leaves her face. Then her aura dims and changes from
pink to silvery-gray and, at the same time the glass screen of
her phone shatters on the hardwood, so does she. And there
they go, some of the broken pieces, like she’s a dandelion
gone to seed. I reach out with my dead hand to catch them,
but I’m not made of anything real anymore. They tingle as
they float through. I look down at her there, on her knees
on the floor, and I wonder if she can sense the head of the
ghost dog on her shoulder. And I know now that I’ll never
be able to leave her, that this will be my hell, to face the
memory of the day she gave me her heart, her bright eyes
scared but resolved, hopeful that I could be as brave as she
was. To replay over and over the words I should have said
then but didn’t. To scream apologies she’ll never hear. To
finally tell her after all this time, much too late, that yes,
I love her too.
Copyright ©2017 by Angie Tonucci. All rights reserved.