It was a Sunday afternoon of unseasonable mid-November warmth. Amidst its moment, they walked together, not in autumn present but in dream of spring, as yellow leaves lined the way of streets and lanes as accent color in a grey-cast world, despite energy of warmth and light.
“Do you believe in energies?” he asked, “That we can feel and know and understand another—and others us—even through a distance?”
She listened, considered, eyes inward and musing. Resolved in her conviction, she responded, “I do. If one didn’t, why would they ever write for another or the world? Why should they ever hope or care if they are read? Isn’t that piece to the magic of art and writing: to commune, to be found, learned and known—and reading another believe, of themselves, the same—all through the distance, silence, and space between?
I believe in the magic. I believe in the hope,” she spoke. “I believe in the magic of finding and being found, of learning and being learned, of understanding and being known—even through ad distance. Yes, I believe in energies—especially those in art and words. Keep pouring and gifting energy into the Universe. Even without answer believe one day, It, Universe, or Another will. Live open to the mystery of unknowns and possibilities. Believe the energies you sense,” she told.
There was pause and hesitation, flash of change in transience of the ephemeral; shift sensed but unseen, like current beneath water’s face: an energy as she ended in an affirmation. “I do,” she spoke shortly, though seeming to expound and tell of more, like vow and oath of souls to another, married in decision of spirit, not event, absent ceremony or recognition: decided in determination toward other to forever recognize, honor, and see.
Silence fell in moment as energy read, and then it was broken, rent asunder, by hour bells from the cathedral. She blushed light—hue-hint further sign of spring-lived dream—smiling as she brushed fallen hair behind; unspeaking, but keeping, in hold of decided energy.