But Not Forgotten

Dragonia has left.

Left on a Boeing 737-800, to return to the Realm of the Forests.  Left, damnably, on the day the heat wave has finally broken, when the temperature at last has fallen below 80, and the sky has clouded over with merciful rain that kisses Gloria’s windshield and drizzles through her open roof like glad tears.  Left an empty space on her side of the bed.  Left a fragrance in the air.  Left behind empty perfume bottles and jewelry boxes and low-carb pasta boxes, and plates of cold bacon grease, and half-full glasses of diet raspberry ginger ale, next to photos of us in frames.  Left to come back, although no-one knows when.  Left with the assertion that I should think of moving out as moving forward, and she’s probably right, although it’s hard to tell which way is forward is when the signposts I know how to read have all fallen down.

Tomorrow there are many things I have to begin to do.  Tomorrow will be busy.

But not tonight.  Tonight I will sit, and think, and write.  Tonight I will play.  Tonight I will drink the lees of the bottles of wine we opened together and wait for her to tell me that she is safe.

Tonight I will miss her.

Every night, I think.