“If you’ll walk with me, I’ll walk with you.”
They were the first words you spoke to me, on that rainy afternoon when everyone had left the park but us. I was there to read, and had lost myself in a book until you broke me from my immersion. I hadn’t felt the chilly air as it whipped small sprays of raindrops towards me until then.
You were there to jog, and had made it almost all the way through until you saw me. The rain was unusual, but you used to live in it before you moved here. It was no obstacle for you, but you were concerned I’d catch a cold, so you’d said.
I told you I supposed I could walk, and we did, huddled under your sweaty jacket. The sweat was quickly washed away by the rain, and we laughed about this.
That’s how our whole relationship was, walking together, laughing at the absurdity of life. Many years passed with this shared conviviality.
But then I got sick, and so did you. I got better. I hoped you would.
But here you are, breaths barely rising. If you breath with me, my love, I’ll breath with you. Please don’t go.