“Well,” my friend John said after watching me staring at the same page of my book for 10 minutes straight, “what happens now?”
What happens now?
“I don’t know,” I answered, slowly closing the book and placing it back on the bookshelf.
“Let me quote Ijeoama Umebinyuo,” he whispered, I could feel his chest pressing lightly on my back as he bent down to gently rub his cheek against mine, the action was cat-like and precious in the way it spoke of the people who are my people, my home (home is not a place on a map, it’s so much more), “So, here you are. Too foreign for home, too foreign for here. Never enough for both.” He’s right, I know, but it doesn’t make the words sting less. I had tried to be enough for both here and there (maybe some people are born to wander the earth.)
“We can’t stay nestled forever in between Welsh hills,” I answer, feeling my fingers tremble as I reach behind me to touch his ephemeral skin.
“We’ll come back,” he says, matter-of-fact, and it’s true, I have found solace here and that is something one does not forget easily.
“Yes, these hills have yet to witness many things.”
“All joyful,” he smiles and presses his ghost-like lips to the nape of my neck.
I reach up and touch the matryoshka doll on the shelf. “It feels surreal,” I say, lips trembling and voice low.
“I know,” I feel his hands gently enveloping mine in a comforting gesture.
“I like this place.”
“I have to make a decision,” He’s burrowed his face in between my shoulder blades and through the fabric of my t-shirt I swear I can feel his smile. “More than one, actually… So many choices, so many paths.” He lets out a low laugh and I can feel his ghost like fingers tracing patterns on the back of my hands.
“Ah.” His voice drifts through the afternoon air like the fog slowly covering the hills surrounding Cardigan Bay. “But you already made your decision.” He is always unwavering in his beliefs, always confident, trusting me to be who he has always known I am (always, even before you yourself knew how iridescent your soul is). “Did you not?”
I smile, “Maybe so.” He presses a kiss to my tangled hair (Curly locks, curly locks, wilt thou be mine?) and stretches before plopping back on the bed, all his feline grace gone.
“You are a force of nature,” he says, fingering the abandoned Tolkien novel on the bed.
“Like my mother before me,” I answer, all doubts evaporated at the conjured image of the woman who has always believed in me, the woman who gave me a kiss (a love strong enough) to build a dream on.
Yes, I think, she gave me a love strong enough to build a dream on.