dclarion: (Default)
I woke up about an hour ago.  I slept all day because I was up all night.  I was up all night on the phone.  Deb and I talked for six hours, six hours that passed like no time at all.  We spoke of many things.  We spoke of one thing in particular, a day forty years ago that lives forever in my memory.

We spoke of her playing a violin arrangement of Jacques Offenbach's Barcarolle for me in the practice room, and of the gentle kiss that followed.  She told me that she realized, in a flash, that I was everything she could ever have wanted, and that it so terrified her that she ran the other way.  I told her that I, too, was terrified, and for the same reason.

My being is in pieces on the floor.  The cats have batted some of those pieces around; I am trying to find and reassemble them.  I don't know what the finished product will look like, I know that it will not be the same as it was even yesterday.  I have felt many things over the course of my life, none even approaching what I feel now.  Over the course of my life, I have spoken the word "love" in reference to several people.  Last night, I realized that there is only one person I have truly loved, and Deb, I love you still.

dclarion: (Default)
I have a Facebook account in my "other name", the one that is still official.  A couple of days ago, I went into that account to see how my profile page looked from the outside.  When I did so, there was a friend request notice.  From whom should it be, but a high school sort-of-girlfriend with whom I had not had contact in twenty-two years.  Needless to say, I was trembling.  The title of this post says it all; our relationship is much the same as theirs.  We are that close; closer in some ways, I believe, than spouses.

I confirmed the request there, then ran to my account and put in a friend request.  I was awake at around 03:00 this morning, and looked in on my Facebook account, as I usually do.  There she was; she had just confirmed my own friend request.  We started chatting back and forth, then her line dropped.  I grabbed my cell phone and rang her up (I had found her number about twenty-four hours ago).

Three hours hater, she had to finally get some sleep, and we ended what promises to be the first of many conversations to come.  What she said to me at one point pretty much epitomizes our relationship:

Isn't it great how, even after twenty-two years, we pick up right where we left off.

Yes, Deb, isn't it?  I disappeared when I ended up in the booby hatch in 1989.  Once I was on the network, I would, from time to time, try to find you; for whatever reasons, it didn't work.  I was so afraid that you were dead; I knew that your health wasn't good.  Then you found me.  You're not getting rid of me this time, Lady; you're stuck with me, for good or for ill.  We exchanged the words at the end of the call.  I love you, Deb; I always have, I always will.  Thank you.  Thank you for being you.

May 2013

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