By Steph Kenific
For my part, I knew the aesthetic pleasure that was Patrick Cready on three occasions. The first was at such a time that the wall between us was impenetrable, age a sheer, insurmountable barrier between those that did and those that didn't. And though the party lights flashed on and off, obstructing our locked gaze from opposite ends of the room, I could still cipher the words on his lips. "Someday," he mouthed.
Years later, lamentations had forced us to share breathing space once more, and his hand found mine. I excused myself, needing some reprieve from the heaviness of the living casket before us. I walked through the bedridden corridors, hearing the precious footfalls from behind, yet not daring to turn until the natural light was able to reveal truth.
"I waited for you all this time," I sighed, pressing myself into his waiting arms.
It seemed then that the time for waiting was up, that this was when all the questions would be answered. It seemed as then that I could remain in this fated embrace until the end of my days.
But the end came very suddenly, and as I looked upon him that last time nothing could quell the sobs from deep within me. Patrick Cready, surrounded by all those who'd loved him, his eyes shut tight, trying to deny the sight of me…Patrick whose hands were hopelessly folded together as a gesture of finality…These days have all flown out of reach.