Dear Old Friend

Story by Caitlin Van Horn
November 30, 2015

We’ve grown old, dear friend. Years of infinite tenderness have grafted into our weathered skin like fruit vines.

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Story by Caitlin Van Horn
November 30, 2015

We’ve grown old, dear friend. Years of infinite tenderness have grafted into our weathered skin like fruit vines.

oldwoman3.jpg
 
 

We’ve grown old, dear friend. Years of infinite tenderness have grafted into our weathered skin like fruit vines. We hold memories in our hands like legends. Countless stories swim on our tongues. Beautiful mementos expand our breath.  

Do you remember? The day we opened ourselves wide until we became a mighty storm, a heralding prelude to a lifetime warmed by kindred fires. How I ripened in your hands as we dug for each other like lost rubies. I lodged you in my ribs with found treasures. When I dreamt, you slept in me. When I bled, you were my tourniquet. I tended to your innermost aches while you swaddled my fears with springtime. Our love became a new world in response to another. We were a coven of dreamed things as we hovered over each other in lucid sleep. 

We’ve grown old, dear friend. Years of unrelinquished joy. Now, as the light seeps from our marrow like sap, we lower our eyes knowing that our eternal adventure awaits. Our magnum opus, our final song. The homesickness we could never shake. So we leave our entanglement and run into the forest, cascading like a herd of deer.  We cease our springing and melt deep into the earth. Swelling the roots, we rise from the great oak trees, and disappear on the wind as an invisible poem of unspeakable hope. 

 
 
 
 
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