The wind brushes its playful fingertips across my temple and cheek bones, my lips and eyelids. I hear its song from the wind chimes and then the birds and the laughter of a couple walking by holding hands. When I close my eyes, I see three red dots glowing like the embers of a fire.
The sun is standing on the horizon with arms stretched up to the sky, just as she did in a photograph before she died. I feel the arms, her arms, like rays of love, beaming across my skin. It’s that time of day when half of life is splashed in vibrant color and half in blue shadow, as the sun makes her unconditional dance toward the other side of the globe.
Behind my eyelids, I notice the space between each of the dots, and I can tell they’re inextricably linked, like three pearls on a thread of grass, waving gently in the wind, each swaying in sync with the others. As long as they stay connected, I say. As long as the they speak to one another.
Song, wings, breath, memory, sunlight. This is the constellation of existing — when we pause in a moment perfectly balanced on the ballpoint tip of time, allowing it to fill the veins of the soul like blood fanning into every artery and cell, so that we won’t forget it; So that the moment becomes a part of us before it blooms into something else — dusk perhaps: when everything will certainly change, but where there is undoubtedly an equal magic to discover.