Lasts

When people love someone, they remember their first kiss, the first time they held hands, the first time they shared a bed.  Not me.  I knew the lasts: the last time we went to the fair, the last time we watched our favorite movie together, the last time we made love.  When he kissed me goodbye that rainy morning, I understood it was for the last time, even before the police came to the door.

How could I know those things?  What link between us allowed me to sense when another of our favorites would never be shared again?  Was my guardian angel trying to prepare me?  I will never know.

When I lost my love, I remembered the first sunrise alone, the first time his birthday passed by and I couldn't give him a gift, the first time I tried to ask his advice and realized I never could. 

As I walk beside him through the mist, I wish I could hold his hand and comfort him, but I fail to touch him.  I want to tell him to not despair, but he can’t hear me.  He doesn’t know I share every tear that dampens his cheeks.  I reach to wipe them away, but my hand slips through them.  If only I could turn him back from the fate he seeks, but I know he has already embraced this final last: the last time he will walk this silent lane to the pier where he proposed

© Marielle Miller 2011