Love

Today was the 5th anniversary of the death of the Beloved of one of my good friends.

I never had the chance to meet her; she was killed before I knew him. We met about three or four years ago (has it been so long?), when I was barely out of high school and he was working steadily through his Master's program. It was on this day, actually; I saw him sitting under a tree, head tilted toward the sky, and he just looked so sad, I asked him what was wrong. And he told me.

He loved this woman so much. They had tragically similar pasts; abuse, trauma, death. She grew up cold and hard and strong; he became shy, afraid, quiet, but with a depth and understanding few people could even hope to comprehend. He realized everyone, even those we perceive to be our enemies, have their own fears, loves, dreams. She thought he was crazy.

"She saved me," he says with a soft smile. "And she probably regretted it after."

I don't feel comfortable sharing the details of their first meeting, but after the lease ran out on his apartment about six months after they had met, she offhandedly suggested he move in with her while looking for a new place. And he woke up to her screams.

Trauma is a funny thing; for some, it locks them up, traps them and corners them and never lets them see how much they are loved. That night, love trumped trauma as he ran to her side, and she let him stay.

They never made love, never even voiced their feelings, but they had some sort of understanding beyond words. They slept curled up in her bed, keeping each other's nightmares at bay. He cooked, she worked, and together they were their own brand of happiness.

"The only feminine hobby she had was sewing," he tells me as we walk among the trees. "Some nights, we would sit with the windows open, and she would sew, and I would read stories out loud. Those were the best nights."

I asked him once if he didn't feel taken advantage of, and he stared at me, taken aback.

"No! She loved me, in her own way. We made compromises for each other. We were happy."

And then she was killed, suddenly and tragically. He didn't go to the funeral. He watched the sky, her diary on his lap, the forest just within eyeshot of their small apartment. She loved that forest. And, in her diary, in her crabbed writing, he finally got a peek at her thoughts, was able to see just how much she loved him too. Only after reading it through did he go to her grave.

"She wasn't there--still isn't. She's here; I feel her all around me," he tells me as we walk through the trees. "Sometimes, I swear I hear her laugh. She's happy. But I kind of hope she misses me."

And a light breeze picked up, and I swear to you a thought flittered through my head, in a voice I had never heard before.

"Of course I do."

I didn't ask, but I think he heard it too.