A Portrait Of An Unnamed Couple

Their mornings are in silence as they slowly come out of their dreams. While they’re out on their veranda with their tea, watching the day begin to come together, they break their vigil with ‘Good morning’ and the other’s name. Then they smile at each other instead of to themselves.

A second cup of tea, this time prepared by her, is had in place of breakfast.

There’s always work to do on their farm, students to teach, arguments to mediate, people to visit, or people to host. Something. Anything. Yet there’s never a verbal delegation of duties. One simply picks up on what the other is doing and does something else. Or they work together if the situation calls for it.

Even when they are apart, they aren’t. Separating them with something like distance is like cupping a reflection to take it out of the water.

No matter how tired they get, they don’t take naps. Daytime belongs to each other. Nighttime belongs to dreams.

They interlace fingers when on walks. Her fingers drum the back of his hand while her free hand points out things for him to look at. His fingers remain still while his eyes go where they’re told. And then he makes a joke or observation, satisfying her whole reason for pointing something out in the first place.

When they dance, they are fire and shadows; wind and gossamer threads; moon and tides.

When they sing…

At the end of a long day, they sit facing each other, take the other’s feet onto their own lap, and talk, filling each other in on the gaps in the day they were apart. Sometimes he is the shore taking her waves. Sometimes she is.

When they stand face to face, her forehead is at the perfect height for his lips. He often kisses her this way, placing a hand atop her thick black hair while she hugs him. For him, their hugs smell of coconut and sweat. For her, their hugs smell of sweat and tamarind. They break apart as naturally as they come together, a timing tuned to the very beating of their hearts.

Lips that so comfortably press against the other’s forehead or cheek, never seek their counterpart. And as close as their hugs get, clothes are never cast aside. Not once has one made the other’s heart race.

Within their bedroom, they sleep in a close, clothed cuddle. Her head makes use of his chest as a pillow, tucking herself up against his neck and chin. He wraps his thin arms around her, falling into her softness even as he seeks to protect her from the cold.

Their dreams are warm and sweet. Bitterness wrought by loss has not been a familiar feeling for these two in years.

In their dreams, they join the lovers they individually lost but did not forget. Those two ghosts that bless instead of haunt, shall also go unnamed.

Because they are not ours to be remembered.