Essence :: By Laura Adkins

Essence
By Laura Adkins

I think of you tirelessly, knowing that you are out there and are tangible, as I have so often dreamed. When I slip from my bed to walk the paths of our home at night, near the moors where shifting mists of moonlight rise and greet me, you are there; as you were before the ague, and have always been since.

Our family, friends, and neighbors each think my mind went when you did. I've contracted the fever too, they say; an ironic twist of fate brought on by the dampness and chill of the very moors that I spend my nights in. They laugh when I say I walk with you there; that must be the fever too! The fever is their excuse for everything these days, it seems. But I am not insane, I tell them... and I am not alone. I am NEVER alone.

Tonight I am out in the moors again. My thin nightshift dampens quickly in the moist cool air and clings to my frenetic legs. I am looking for you. And there you are! The mists part to welcome you as both curtain and shroud. In them I see your features finely rendered and softly refined. It is you I see, not a ghost or other creature of the night.

Leaning up against a tree and smiling wantonly in the shifting mists, you beckon to me. No words are spoken; words are empty and pointless. The mists swirl impulsively around us as I approach you. The space between us is closed with my hasty sprint and your arms resume their life's duty. Oh, sweet embrace! We are but two souls in the night, reduced to rawest humanity. My strengths and my frailties are bared for you to remember. I remember you this way: solid and simple, free-spirited and just a little bit wild. I rest my head on your chest and listen intently for the eternal melody. Your familiar heartbeat plays a tune more beautiful than that of the finest orchestras of our day. I know it, note by note.

I knew the ground could not hold your vitality. They tried to bury you away, tried to cover your memory with a mound of dirt and told me to forget. They buried the flesh, but they could not bury that which makes you... you. Try as they might, they could not bury your essence. Your essence is eternal.

Tomorrow you will be there, as you were the night before, and the night before that. You will always be there, resting in the moors by day and coming out at night to walk with me. And though my head aches endlessly and my body burns with this infirmity, I know I shall be well again soon. All I need is to see your face each night, in the cool damp mists of the moors. Your essence is what keeps me alive; In knowing you are there, I can survive.