An old love visited me in a dream recently and is now happily ensconced in my conscious, walking beside me, gazing across a crowded room, and every once in a while, if I listen very closely, he whispers something in my ear, though I don’t understand the words.

The hubster and I talked about it (Yup, he’s that cool), how life is that way. The thousand million ways we are bound, six degrees or less, by cables capable of sustaining bridges, others fine filaments scarcely visible to the eye. But each wraps around us every day or for a solitary moment at the most unusual of times, coming in like a flood, in the flesh or the place of dreams, taking up residence, bringing gifts, and sometimes fleeing before we have the chance to ask, Why? My Nana a story, my Aunt Mary a shamrock, my Grandma Frances a scent at the supermarket, my friend Dionne a certain consistency of ice.

Thinking about Joel made me incredibly happy, that we met at just the right moment in our lives, and shared something beautiful, something worth remembering, though not in complete detail. Is that the reason for the visit? So I can sketch the full picture, nuance, light, and shadow, of our time together and embroider it on my heart? Maybe, maybe not, only time will tell.