Epiphany’s Touch: a kind of love story

Had I the choice her name would be Epiphany, that’s what she was to me, amidst a symphony set in the perfumes of Eros and the colors of love, the tender shoots of young adulthood, the glory of her eyes. I recall what she’d said to me when we’d met though: “my name’s Diana, as in the goddess, not Dianne”, and I’d believed her.

Two instants in those too brief years we’d spent as friends stand out: when she first touched my heart, that first kiss, and when she moved my soul, awakening me to the reality of the world around us. I know she was aware of the former but of the latter, … I just don’t know. We’d been sitting in her car and she’d been explaining how my politics were wrong while I’d been thinking about how my heart soared whenever she walked through the sally-port to visit me; it was hard to think of anything else whenever she was near me.

I either lost or never had her and she’s either unaware of how I felt or for her own reasons, choses to ignore it, but her impact has always been indelible, making me who I am for which I think I thank her. Fickle fate has her own designs and they too often weight too heavily on my heart. She was always on my mind back then but something I’ve never understood intervened, or perhaps, everything had always been one sided.

For a long while she remained omnipresent, at least in my heart; then, as time went by and I started to heal, I’d think of her every week, then every month, then every couple of years when she’d visit me in a dream and my long suppressed feelings would surge and I’d wake up in love again. This morning, working at my desk, trying to improve the world around me, if just the tiniest bit, I drifted back in time and thought of her again, wondering at the reality that while in a romantic sense, from her perspective perhaps we never were, still, it was her touch that made me who I am, for which I’m grateful.

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