I see you every night. We’re no more than five feet apart each time we meet, so close I could describe you freckle by freckle - but the freckles are becoming inconsistent. Each time you visit me I try to paint your picture in my mind so I’ll never forget it, but I am forgetting. I’m forgetting the flecks of green amongst the blue in your eyes and I’m loosing track of the exact shade of auburn to best describe your hair. I try to reach out across the layers of time, through the thick haze, grasping desperately for your hands. I blink, and your there - I blink again and you’re gone. The natural response is to spin around and check behind me, but all around I ever see are blues and greys that would never come from your vibrant soul. It’s a vast nothingness. I reach up in the hopes I may breach another layer, another memory. Maybe I could grab your feet and pull you down to my reality, but I never see your shoes either. What do you need for me to bring you to me again? Your laugh is in the distance, each time I chase it though I realise the pitch changes, the frequency is shifting as we become more distanced. I see you less and less these days. If only I had more time, I would count each freckle on your face once more. I would sweep you away off your feet, and we could slip away into another reality where I can still be beside you. I would brush you hair and tell you how every sunrise was made for your eyes. Every October you visit me. You hold my hands, you reassure me that this is better than the other option. I want to disagree but I don’t think I can. By the time you were 11 you were more tumour than human, it was only natural that this was the outcome. But you’re crossing a threshold where I fear I’ll lose you, even in my mind. This October was coming for many years but it’s now in my horizon and I can’t avoid it - October 26th is when you will have been dead longer than you were alive. It happens to all of us eventually, but when it comes to you I linger on that fact. I question how it’s real, every day I wake up and hope somehow that you simply decided to move on from me. That’s why I never hear from you. You just decided we weren’t meant to be in contact, and so you carried on with your life, achieving every dream you laid out in your youth. We both know better than that. I reach through again, hoping your hand will fall into mind, but that happens so rarely now that I’m forgetting the exact softness of your palms.
You appear before me again. The haze is a warm yellow and pink and your innocent eyes lights up the nothingness. I see you and your 132 freckles, a gappy and childish smile taking over your face; a mature and worn grin appears on mine. I can once again articulate the softness of your hands - comparable to perfectly fluffy clouds, the scent of your Nivea Rose body cream lingers and I feel your heart beat slowly on my fingertips. But as soon as my hand touches your chest, you vanish as quick as you appeared. I shoot up out of bed, lucid and aware in half a second and pull out a notepad from under my bed.
‘’ 132 freckles ‘’ ... In her 11 years she had 132 freckles.
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