She took my hand and we walked together to a gazebo in the
redwood-fenced back yard. Its interior was dark and cool beneath a thick
covering of pink honeysuckle, and we sat down inside together on its padded
bench.
"This place smells as sweet as you feel," I
murmured in her ear.
She kissed me, a soft lingering kiss. "Once long
ago," she told me, "when you first became a warrior, I met you in a
place very much like this. There was already a lot you weren't allowed to
remember; you didn't remember who I was, or what we'd been, but you sensed it
at a deeper level. It was not a happy time. Close your eyes and look with
me."
I did, and remembered. I may have had my memory unblocked,
but there was an incredible lot of it, most of which I would never get around
to looking at. It was background, very little of which needed to be revisited.
But this did. Seeing it again tapped an area of grief that, unlooked at, would
have continued to lie there, tainting our happiness with ancient loss.
"You do remember," she whispered.
I nodded. Till then the span of our separation had been an
abstract concept to me. Now I felt the extent of it, the immensity. I saw
myself reaching out to her in a myriad of mystical moments of loneliness,
leaving a trail of tears that spanned the sky. And I'd never truly forgotten
her, even though all memory of before was locked away, had had to be."
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