When shall we three meet again
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?—Shakespere’s Macbeth, Act I, Scene I
It’s all wrong.
The sun is shining painfully bright and there isn’t a cloud in sight. I lift a hand to shade stormy eyes, my gaze sliding across the blossoming park. The air smells of flowers and morning dew, curling my lips in disdain. A light breeze caresses my face, laughing. The wind is laughing at me, whistling through the air, rustling the leaves of the great oak overhead. It’s giggling like a child, mocking me.
Apart from the breeze, my only companions are three doves chirping in the branches hanging over my head—a death sentence. I glare up at them, but my loathing only serves to feed their cheer.
I can still taste you, I think, running my tongue over dry lips. I don’t know if your chapstick lingered, or if it’s your essence haunting me. Regardless, the remnants of your kisses taste bitter in my mouth.
What trick of the Fates is this?
This whole scene is wrong. The world around me ought to reflect my tragedy. Were this a work of Shakespeare, I would be surrounded by a hurricane, a swirling typhoon to match my mood. Were there not the props and set for a storm, I could make do with a dark, moonless night, the type that sends chills down your spine. Oh, woe is me! The sun is shining; the authors of my tale intend to ridicule me.
I met you last summer, I remember it as clear as the sky above me. You were new in town, desperate for stability, and I was bored with life, hungry for adventure. Across a crowded room, we locked eyes, cue the orchestra, like something out of a book. On an aged spindle, the Wyrd Sisters unfurled a ball of thread the color of fine wine, the same fine wine in the bottle we split over dinner. I couldn’t look away from you. In your gaze, I found something divine—something mine.
By autumn, I had succeeded, and we danced together as the leaves fell. We spent our nights talking, forgetting our pasts and dreaming about the future. The smile never left my face, oh how I thanked The Spinner for weaving our story into her tapestry. Little did I know that as our souls intertwined, we formed a double-edged knife.
The weather grew cold, but our love kept us warm. The timing was perfect; my lease was coming to an end just as your rent became too much. I laughed at the coincidence, taking it for a sign that The Allotter, dispenser of thread, had tethered me to you. On a white Christmas, your arms became home, a haven where my mind could freely roam. I didn’t know that the doors were locked.
Joy turned to sorrow as snow turned to Spring. Flowers rejoiced as we lost the red string. Curse you Atropos! How could I forget that there are not two, but three? The final sister stole my glee, oh inflexible, inexorable, inevitable woman! In frail hands, she lifted her sheer, a double-edged knife that cut the thread, severing you from me. Woe is me! I would rather she carved me from the story altogether, than steal my perfect match.
Now, the stars above weep for me in kind, as I lay stranded in a labyrinth of my own mind. Inside, a raging tempest tears at my intestines. Gray clouds swirl in my lungs, cutting off access to my windpipes, as lightning crackles in my heart, mirroring my shattering hopes and dreams. Tears pour like rain and wails crash like thunder.
How can I cry on a day so delightful? How can I grieve when Mother Nature ignores my pleas? Heartstrings pull my ribcage towards your embrace, towards the home that I lost. What am I to do? I see no way out of this conundrum.
With our love I will lie, right where you left me, as the seasons pass me by. I will not move until the scenery concedes this mockery, and reflects the hurricane of my heart. I will not move until all the world has forgotten the tragedy that dared to blemish this sunny Spring day.
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Lou.Summers 