The Hand Against the Glass

It isn’t always like this.

Most days, I feel the light, the expanse of the future, the forward gusts of life.

I peer through my spyglass, set my course, and let the wind push me away

from the smooth edges of my grief.

But in my sleep, when I’m floating unguarded, sails berthed,

the undercurrent tugs my anchor loose,

and I find myself pouring over the edge of now

back into the deep, still pool of loss.

The water closes over my head, welcoming me

like a lover who knows I will always return.

And instead of gasping for air, struggling to escape,

I remember I have my own gills,

and I let myself sink

deeper

and deeper

until my feet brush the bottom

and I come to a rest.

I gaze down, past my feet, and see

the bottom of this pool is glass.

I sink lower, until I rest on my hands and knees,

and I let my eyes unfocus

as I try to sense you through the translucent barrier.

The water swirls through my hair

and stings the inside of my nose,

the pressure squeezing my heart like a vice.

But I wait, as delicious numbness creeps through my cells—

because there—

I think I can see you.

You’re a shadow on the other side of the glass.

Your shape and details are blurry,

but my soul instantly reshapes itself to your contours.

And now I can’t catch my breath,

because I am once again

the shape of the person who believed you were my oxygen.

I reach for you, thinking I see

the shadow of your hand reaching back to me

from the other side.

My heart leaps, and my eyes close in ecstasy.

You are still here. You never left.

And I am whole again.

—

The moment fades slowly,

overcome by the steady pulsing of my heart.

It coaxes me to open my eyes, to look again.

Because it knows the truth I didn’t want to see before:

the shadow I thought was your hand,

reaching for me,

was the reflection of my own hand,

reaching for you.

It isn’t always like this.

Most days, I’m sailing in the waves and the sunshine

towards a receding horizon.

But sometimes, the undercurrent pulls me back, and I dream of sinking,

reaching,

gasping,

for you.

And all I can do is lay against that unforgiving glass,

wishing for your warmth—

until I gather the strength

to take my own hand

and pull myself back to the surface.

Because you—

you are gone.

But I—

I am still here.

I evolved my gills. 

And I was always whole.