In this second year, I watched the sun rise, a burnt orange ball of warmth and fire. I remember your fire. I think I got most of my fiery anger from you.
I watched the sunrise, watched its rays pierce through clouds, beams of subtle light, like a signal from the sky. The sun then hid behind a cloud, with only a hint of its fire outlining it like a hem to the cloud’s clothing. I watched the sun rise again, turning softer, the fire gone, and what remained was light.
I hold on to that one memory, when despite the confusion of your broken mind and your loss of words, you took my hand, held it gently between your palms, and then you kissed my hand, drawing circles around your mouth. You wanted to speak, but could only utter what sounded like breathy stutter-hiccups. And yet, I understood your love then, but I never took it as a goodbye.
I wonder if you still have your fire from where you are now or whether you now have only retained your warmth. I wonder how you are and whether you both are together, like the birds I watched across the other end of the sky. They were together in flight and they zoomed over me. I looked up, but they were in a mad rush, barely pausing to see me.
I miss you. There is no end to missing you.
(written, April 2023)