Into the Mystic

I’m the age now that you were when you died. I can’t help but remember when you said one day we’d float magnificently into the mystic, like Van Morrison sang, only not at the same time. Time, after all, doesn’t exist. The time between our deaths would seem like an eternity at first, and then only seconds apart.

Maybe you knew you’d leave sooner than I expected. I argued with you that the mystic of Morrison’s song wasn’t necessarily death. In my mind, we had already sailed into the mystic hundreds of times. It is a chapter somewhere in an ocean without gravity, without genesis or revelation, without anyone’s opinions muddling the reflections of the mirrors we held for each other. We lived in the mystic for years, realizing the ideal and ignoring the rest.

Yet, I know it wasn’t the perfection that I remember. It doesn’t matter. All that matters was that we loved ourselves when we were together, and there was that night off the coast of Florida when we discovered that was what we had been looking for all along. So simple, yet so unexpected. A soulmate makes you fall in love with yourself. After that, it can’t be reversed, diminished, or erased.

In that way, we are eternal. I’m just waiting to hear that foghorn. You know the one–the one that awakens our gypsy souls. And when that foghorn blows, I will be coming home.