She (1)

She (1)

She was not sure when it started. A cold day perhaps. Long shadows. Early evening. She could feel in her memories the wind blow cool from the mountains around the valley. A shiver of possibilities across the lengthening dusk.

Maybe it was then. When the first stars blinked across the skies, the first street lights flickered and then failed.

‘Yes. Perhaps it was then,’ she thought to herself.

She closed her eyes. Lay still and quiet. Felt once again, the first time it touched her.

Fingertips across her face. A breath through her untangled, uncombed hair. Two hands like ripples along each side of her spine.

She felt naked. Known. Not wanted. 

Needed. 

Essential to something outside of herself. It was not a violation. More a justification of her being there at that moment and now.

A now that seemed to stretch from then until the now. The here where she lay under the freshly mown grass,the open blue sky and the rim of trees that nodded and whispered in the late spring breeze.

‘Yes,’ she admitted quietly to herself once again, ‘this, what is now was born from then.’

She reached out with her hand and blindly sought his own. She felt through each new blade of grass, felt the soil crumble, warm and fecund through her fingers, smelled him close to her, his breathing, his mustiness and then found his. She caressed the palm of his hand. Followed the lines and marks, the calloused knots and branches of experiences that were written in his outstretched fingers.

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