At times when I’m lucky, I see glimpses of you at the corner of my eyes.
I hesitate to look directly at the illusion, because whenever I do, you disappear instantaneously. Reflections in mirrors and tinted store windows. Similar jackets in the crowd. Identical khakis and worn-out flip-flops.
Your eyes in the stranger standing across the room from me, your shoulders at a slightly different angle on the man walking in front of me. Your voice in another couple’s conversation.
Or when I’m walking home from a long day at work, the brightness of the city will momentarily transform into the lights of the local fair. I can hear the children running, coins jingling, and the screams of simple delight and incandescent joy. The wafting smell of the hot dog stand. The giggle of young couples.
And I imagine you besides me. Rolling your eyes at the futility of the event, but accompanying me in child’s play.
The best mirages occur in my subconscious. Dreams. Dreams of you and me together again, walking down the street. Your hand clasped tightly against mine. Conversations about life and the afterlife. Penetrating laughter. Sweet, blissful company.
But these are all apparitions.
Delusions strung from yearning and loss.
My subconcious’ desperate attempt to revive your memory.