The Lost Wife

He laughs. And in his laugh I hear bliss. I hear feet dancing, the rush of skirts twirling. The sound of children. Is that the first sign of love? You hear in the person you're destined to love the sound of those yet to be born.

And I saw for the first time how, despite the isolation of our own lives, we are always connected to our ancestors; our bodies hold the memories of those who came before us, whether it is the features we inherit or a disposition that is etched into our soul.

If those we love visit us when we dream, those who torment us almost always visit us when we're still awake.

In my old age, I have come to believe that love is not a noun but a verb. An action. Like water, it flows to its own current. If you were to corner it in a dam, true love is so bountiful it would flow over. Even in separation, even in death, it moves and changes. It lives within memory, in the haunting of a touch, the transience of a smell, or the nuance of a sigh. It seeks to leave a trace like a fossil in the sand, a leaf burning into baking asphalt.

You hear in the person you're destined to love the sound of those yet to be born.

I had to teach myself that love was very much like a painting. The negative space between people was just as important as the positive space we occupy. The air between our resting bodies, and the breath in our conversations, were all like the white of the canvas, and the rest our relationship- the laughter and the memories- were the brushstroke applied over time.

To those who believe the dead do not visit them, I say you have cataracts in your soul. I am a man of science, yet I believe in guardian angels and the haunting by ghosts.

The mind, the heart, the womb. Those three are all threaded in a sacred dance. A woman's pelvis is like an hourglass with the capacity to tell time. It both creates and shelters life. When a mother's diet in insufficient, nutrients are pulled from her own teeth and bone. Women are built to be selfless.

We wore that grief like one wears one's underclothes. An invisible skin, unseen to prying eyes, but knitted to us all the same. We wore it every day.

There are two sensations of skin you will always remember in your lifetime; the first time you fall in love-and that person holds your hand-and the first time your child grasps your finger. In each of those times, you are sealed to the other for eternity.

Your eyes are wide open. I feel as though I could step inside them and make myself at home.

In my old age, I have come to believe that love is not a noun but a verb. An action. Like water, it flows to it's own current.

He took a deep breath, as if he were taking the air from my own lungs and swallowing it for himself.

I know only one thing. One doesn’t abandon family. One doesn’t leave them, even in the name of love.

But in order to survive in this foreign world, I had to teach myself that love was very much like a painting. The negative space between people was just as important as the positive space we occupy.

A woman’s pelvis is like an hourglass with the capacity to tell time. It both creates and shelters life. When the mother’s diet is insufficient, nutrients are pulled from her own teeth and bone. Women are built to be selfless.

Like poetry that is recited but never written down, more powerful because it is held solely in the mind.

In my old age, I have come to believe that love is not a noun but a verb. An action. Like water, it flows to its own current. If you were to corner it in a dam, true love is so bountiful it would flow over. Even in separation, even in death, it moves and changes. It lives within memory, in the haunting of a touch, the transience of a smell, or the nuance of a sigh. It seeks to leave a trace like a fossil in the sand, a leaf burned into baking asphalt.

I often wonder if it’s the curse of old age, to feel young in your heart while your body betrays you.

I told my daughter, the first time she fell in love, not to hold it too close. Think of yourself in a warm, summer pool, I told her, concentric circles rippling all around you. Golden beams of sunlight flooding your hair, striking your face. Inhale it. Breathe it. It will not leave you. If you place sunlight in your palms, it will turn to shadow. If you put fireflies in a jar, they will die. But if you love with wings on, you will always feel the exhilaration of being suspended in flight.

Si aquellos a los que amamos nos visitan en nuestros sueños, aquellos que nos atormentan casi siempre acuden a nosotros en nuestro despertar.

my own expectations that I held for my son—ones that probably

But in order to survive in this foreign world, I had to teach myself that love was very much like a painting. The negative space between people was just as important as the positive space we occupy. The air between our resting bodies, and the breath in between our conversations, were all like the white of the canvas, and the rest our relationship—the laughter and the memories—were the brushstrokes applied over time.

You hear in the person you’re destined to love the sound of those yet to be born.

He laughs. And in his laugh I hear bliss. I hear feet dancing, the rush of skirts twirling. The sound of children. Is that the first sign of love? You hear in the person you’re destined to love the sound of those yet to be born.