I was 23 when it happened. “Fell in love,” as most would say. Don’t worry, I’m well aware that I’m too young to fall in love, even younger to think about marriage. Yet, every now and then you hear of a story that starts out like this and that story, til this day, hasn’t finished, and perhaps I was coerced into believing it could happen to me through hearsay. And it did. She proposed to me during my vacation to Chicago, on a frigid horse-carriage ride through the South Loop. I said yes, kissed her, and ended up fondling each other for the duration of the ride across Michigan Ave. Beneath the blankets.
Two seraphically blessed months later, she passed away. I never got the chance to go through the whole wedding ceremony, never got the chance to hate my step-parents, never even got a chance to fight so bad, one of us would scream, “I want a divorce!” She just packed, and caught the next flight to St. Peter’s gate.
I didn’t feel so surprised, I felt like how I had my coffee. Unsweetened, no cream, and overcharged. I kept the ring she gave me, Juicy Coutour was etched on it. No she wasn’t so perfect, we seldom are, but her alchemy fit mine just enough to make fire. Except the departure was not as warm. Her vitality, her memory, her sweetness, her little hidden mole, stripped by the inevitably sour course of life. Was I still too young to have fallen in love, or thought about marriage? Or was she too young to die? I feel her with me, in everything I do, and it’s terrible. It’s not as sweet as they make it seem in the movies.