Our connection lashes our fingers together with bolts of gilded gold. The sensation is tenfold. His skin is satin. His heat so comforting. His strength god-like as he pulls me into his embrace.
And there, we stand.
We stand in each other for heartbeats, but in the other world, it is years.
Time has no jurisdiction here, and as the seasons roll and people grow older in the place called earth, we just stand in serenity. Peace. Togetherness.
Saying hello.
Our heartbeats sync into one. Our fingers mesh and glide through each other’s. We are air and water and love and lust all at once.
The magic of touch slowly wraps us in skin once again, allowing voices to work and eyes to blink, granting the power of speech and conversation.
Soon, we will no longer need these forms. We will choose another to start a different life or we will stay here together. It’s up to us. All options are available. Reincarnate or remain. Watch or go.
No pressure to choose any.
Right now, I’m in heaven with the husband I lost so young.
His face transforms into a smile, and I fall for him all over again. But this time, my heart has no limits. It can tumble far, far deeper than before. It can splash into my soul because that is what keeps us tethered. Bound as one no matter where we go.
His hand cups my cheek, and he kisses my forehead. “You found me, Della Ribbon.”
His voice is the same but not. The rough timbre plaits with golden grace.
I rise on my tiptoes and kiss him.
This man who is more than just my husband but my soul-mate. The missing piece of my being. “I always do, don’t I?”
And I do.
In multiple lifetimes, we are drawn and delivered. No age, race, or circumstance can keep us apart. It’s impossible because when we came into being, we were one. We were whole, then split down the middle to become two. Our one task is to find each other in every lifetime to complete the circle and be happy.
“Tell me…what did I miss?” His lips meet mine, and we kiss for a month on earth. A month where the moon crests and wanes and waxes.
When we pull away, I smile. “You saw it all. I felt you watching me.”
“I did. I watched it all.”
“I’m glad.”
Locking me against him, he walks through the softest flowers with me by his side. “I saw our son fall in love and get married.”
“Yes, he chose well.”
“I saw John pass and find Patricia.”
“As it should be.”
Ren spins me in his arms, brushing aside my hair before kissing me again. “And I saw our grandchild. A girl.”
“She’s the perfect embodiment of hope and stubbornness.”
“She is.” He smiles, white and blinding. “Her name suits her perfectly, don’t you think?”
I nod. “Perfectly.”
His body shimmers, teasing with solid and figment. “Our son has made me proud, Della Ribbon. I’m so glad he’s no longer alone.”
“He’s found his Hope and his heart. But he still misses you. Deeply.”
“I know.”
Together, we turn and look through the veil of this world and the other. A rainbow shimmer, a curtain of protection where souls can guard over the living.
And there we watch Jacob and Hope riding over fields with their daughter trotting behind. A daughter who is the perfect blend of all of us.
A daughter named after a grandfather she wouldn’t meet in her lifetime but perhaps in another…someday.
“She’s a pretty thing,” Ren murmurs into my hair.
“Pretty and stubborn and bold.”
“A perfect child for a perfect name then.”
We kiss again, letting our son and his wife canter off with their daughter.
A daughter who will grow to experience her own trials and tribulations—to find her own soul-mate.
A daughter named Wren.
In a daze, I wrapped the manuscript inside its leather cover, placed it into the box, and closed the lid. When had Mom written such a thing?
It felt so real. As if she’d already visited such a place and returned to pen it for others.
How did she know we would have a daughter? How did she know I’d marry Hope and find a way to be happy?
What other stories and love notes would I find if I pressed forward with the renovation? Had she written any to me? To Hope? Had she done what Dad had and pre-empted her death with gifts of remembrance?
Goosebumps never faded as I turned my back on the writing room and strode warily through the house. I’d entered this place with new beginnings on my mind, yet the past had found me instead. A manuscript that Mom had written in privacy yet predicted a future that had come to pass.
Wren.
She called my daughter Wren.
After my father.
After love.
I needed to see Hope. I needed to feel the sunshine on my skin and her arms around my waist—to remind myself I was alive and not in the astral plane that my mother’s words had painted so well.