I remember dinner.
We had pasta. Oh wait. She had pasta. I had…something with chicken. And pizza. We were celebrating something. I think it was a special occasion. Or was it that we simply had the time?
But I remember dinner.
She wore a sheer peach blouse. She had on those horrid contact lenses, the colored ones. She’d press up against my side when she wasn’t twisted around to face me. Sometimes, she would lightly touch my arm. She smiled easily and listened intently. I’ve never been happier than in those two hours with her.
You see? I do remember.
I hesitate at the tunnel entrance. Before me lies the unknown expanse of cold and darkness I am to go through alone.
“Anything can happen in there,” I say, fear stuttering my words.
That’s the point.
“What if I get lost?” I take a step back. A hand on my arm stops further retreat.
You’ll find your way.
Without warning I am pushed across the threshold into the darkness.
After long moments of fear and hesitation, I take one tentative step forward. Emboldened, I slowly take another step, and another.
Then I realize that I have begun to move forward.
(For Gil who, every day, urges me on.)