i’ve already spoken of j’s ability to master many things. he was particularly good at handmade crafts. even today his company builds violins and cellos. in our time together he made many things for me. a necklace, the pendant carved from soft wood with the likeness of my face. a fountain that moved water from a fish bowl base, through the back, then through the mouth of a carved wood sculpture of someone. on easter he presented me with a dress that he had sewn by hand. i swear to God that all of this is true. it’s hard even to write it because it’s so unbelievable. towards the end of our time together he was working on a canoe that would be perfectly able to float across a pond. that is a trip we never took. i thought about the time he spent making these things and why. i had never felt so loved in my life and i could not fathom what made me worth of all of this effort, time, and physical labor. this love was so new to me. i had been loved by others to be sure, but never openly and with reassurance that keeps you from doubting in your darkest moments. and despite all that he gave me, made for me, labored over for me, i never once felt the need to keep up with him. yes, i scrambled to write to him, to tell him things using only my only tool, honest words. but that was because i shared his same need to release these feelings for the other person. we were lost in this love. we were drowning in it.
our relationship was just as much about the time we spent apart as he time we spent together. he taught me much about how time away from the love of your life can be an investment in the bond that would keep it together.
one summer j made a trip with his church to alaska. the day before he left he gave me a blank journal. he asked me to write in it every day; my thoughts, my hopes, my dreams, my nightmares. he said that he had a journal just like it and promised to do the same for me. the next morning i cracked open the journal to begin writing and i found a lock of his hair between two pages. i was overcome with emotion. i believed that he might very well have left a piece of his heart there in the journal if he thought he could have. i could do nothing but thank God that i shared a life with this person.
at christmas that year my family took a trip to the bahamas. as a parting gift j gave me a copy of a c.s. lewis book, till we have faces. something to read on my trip. on the inside he wrote:
xmas 92
my dear christy,
i loved this book and
i knew you were the
one i must pass
it on to. you are my
psyche and my istra,
two in one. i hope
that you will love this
book; i think in my
heart that you will.
i love you.
j----
hell if i didn’t carry that book around with me everywhere i went, selfishly trying to absorb the the words, the story, and the reason why i was like the character of psyche in this retelling of the classical myth of cupid and psyche. and the book stayed in my possession while on the trip except for one short banana boat ride when i handed it over to my mother for safe keeping. and she dropped it in the water. it was an honest accident but at the time i was livid. the one piece i had of him with me on this trip had swelled to three times its size and the words he’d written had begun to blur. to this day it is the only clear memory i have of the trip: that book, the water, and my anger.
a few days after i returned j gave me a second copy. inside was written:
xmas 1992
to christy,
may you love and
remember this story and its
likeness to your life, forever.
you truly are my psyche and my istra all
combined. this is the second identical book, but
remember it as the first
after it was soaked. i love you
and i hope you will
love this book as i do. merry
christmas.
love,
j----
and all i have to this day are the two copies of the book, one still wrinkled from being wet, both inscribed, both now my only evidence of this true life fairy tale.
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