MY TOUCHSTONE

I dream a lot. And in my dreams, she often comes to me.

I dreamt of her again last night. Usually, she would be too far away from me, or if she was close enough, she would rarely see me, and I could never talk to her.

But this time, it was different.

We were standing in a street – a street somewhere in the city – a city which seemed familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. I saw her. My touchstone. She walked towards me slowly, slowly, and I moved towards her just as slowly. I don’t know what she was wearing, but the wind blew her hair across her face for a moment, and her eyes did not let go of mine. The street was quiet although I could see the traffic purring up and down far away. There was only me and only her, two women walking towards each other. When she finally stood in front of me, I gazed into her eyes, and she gazed back steadily. Then shyly, awkwardly, but clearly, I said:

“I love you.”

And she, she was not surprised. She was not shocked or disgusted; grieved or angered. She simply smiled and said:

“I know.”

The expression in her eyes was sweet. We embraced and I held her tight because something in me told me that I would not hold her again like this. Pure happiness is impossible to describe, but it is the only term that occurs to me when I think of how I felt as we hugged.

And suddenly, she was gone, and so was the street. I was in a broken-down mall. Scenes which I no longer recall came and went, like she had come and gone, and finally, I awoke.

I wondered. I still wonder. I wonder if she indeed knows.

I know.

Maybe she knows.

In the dream, her eloquent eyes said to me:

“I know what you feel for me, and you know that I can’t requite your feelings.”

And I said to her in that same silent voice:

“Yes.”

Her face happens to be one of those faces which come and go – in real life, in dreams. One of those faces which you don’t want to lose out of your sight. You want it to stay with you all the time, but it moves on and you watch it leave and disappear in the past with a pang.

You think of an X. Two separate lines crossing each other and then...separating again, never to meet a second time.

That face becomes a face of an ex-acquaintance.

You came ex caligo and went towards...where? What? I would give much to know, my cherished one, my touchstone.

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ex caligo: Latin for "out of the mist", by which I mean, "suddenly".