Timeless

I heard the whisper in my heart, long before I recognized it. From the back porch, I watched the girls swing, their golden hair sparkling in a tone not unlike the tinkling laughter they shared. The whisper came to me as little more than a sigh, and I thought then that it had been mine. Pure love for the girls rushed through me, and echoed, and I knew, without doubt or hesitation, that I had known such love before.

Past lives?  I wasn't willing to dismiss it, or embrace it for that matter.  There's no explaining a lot of things in life after all, and I'm not so close-minded that I need explanations. When my youngest woke the next morning laughing, telling me about the nice man who took her flying, it didn't occur to me that it was more than a dream.

But after my oldest came and told me of the same dream, the coincidence seemed too odd.  I was sure they'd decided to play a trick on me, and it made me smile.  I expected them to bring it up again, but they didn't.  I asked them each in turn, if there had been more, and they each whispered, "he told us to tell no one but you."

After that, things changed. My own dreams filled with vivid images, and intense elation.  The energy that coursed to my fingertips and toes with each heartbeat tingled like good sex, and it made little sense to try and sleep at all like that. I didn't want to.

I found myself drifting, staring east toward the coast as if I were waiting for the sun to rise in the middle of the day. The girls would stand with me sometimes, gazes transfixed, as though they felt the pull that lured me, too.  Only their father seemed concerned. 

There could only be one solution to the restless nights and distracted days. I would have to go, though I wasn't sure where or how. Across the sea, on the wind, to a place my mind's eye knew perfectly. I would have to trust my instincts. I couldn't explain it, but my husband placed his hand on mine and squeezed. "if it will bring you back whole to me, then go.  Find what it is you are looking for."  But the acceptance was not without limits. "Two weeks."  His look carried with it the ultimatum people who've been married a long time understand as non-negotiable.

The windows to our bedroom opened to the Atlantic, the white curtains designed to let in the dawn as soon as it was there.  I stepped throught the French doors, white painted to withstand the salt air I loved so much, and stared again, out to the horizon.  What was I doing?  This was my dream, the house by the sea, the girls, even him.  The sea grass swaying along the dunes, and blending into the lawns where the girls and I loved to play.  What could be out there that meant more to me than this? Than them? Than him?  The wind swirled into the curtans and they billowed like sails as I stood there, and the words in my mind were so clear I turned around to see where they'd come from.  "There is me. There is us."

I felt the brush of warm air in the sea cooled breeze and the thrill of it was more than mid-life crisis. The thrill was the roller coaster leap of being in love.  I hadn't felt it for so many years, I'd forgotten the way my tummy rode the pleasure and the smile that came unbidden to my lips.  That was what drew me; that feeling, that knowledge.

I called the airline and booked a flight to Paris.  My husband overheard the call and stopped to listen. When I hung up the phone he said, "Are  you crazy? Paris will be a mess this time of year.  All of Europe is on holiday."

"Perhaps I am."  And truly I meant it; what idiot would leave the perfection of the coast, my family, this man, for some strange dream that wouldn't even identify itself?  "But I don't think I can rest until I try.  I wish you could understand."

"You know Megg, it could be just…hormonal. Have you talked to Dr. White?"

"No." it didn't seem likely that my gynecologist would be able to explain the dreams, the touch.  Nor the messages the girls gave me.

The look of scorn and doubt
"started packing right away, and the girls danced around my bedroom as I filled the bag. "Can we come too, Mommy?" they sang. "When will you be back, Mommy?"

I knelt on the carpet in front of them and pulled their warm toast selves to me. "Not this trip my angels. But I promise not to be gone too long, and I will bring your pictures so you will always be close to me." They kissed me with sticky fingers and peach fresh lips before they scampered back to their play. I sat back on my heels, kneeling, and said a silent prayer that I would keep my promise to them.

And then I left.

Bright patches of blooming sunflowers punctuate the south of France in late summer. Sewn together with verdant meadows, vineyards and fields of alfalfa and rye they create a rich quilt of pastoral beauty. The farm estates are small, but they are centuries old. I wandered for days among them, stopping at as many as I could, waiting, for what, I wasn't sure.

Today is my last chance. Tomorrow, my respite ends, and I fly back, across the Atlantic, back to the girls, back to home. But today? Today will be precious.

The sky was crystal clear as I started along the road to Narbonne, the road to the sea. Not far from the village, the view breaks open to the Mediterranean, and time stands still. A schooner, three masted and in full sail, scoots along the shoreline, framed perfectly by the windshield of the rented Renault. The picture would have been the same, save the windshield, for a thousand years.

Further along are vineyards. Neat rows of twisted vines parade in diagonals up the hills, and beckon me to stop at their roadside stands of plastic vats. They line up like suburban mailboxes, and spew the local vintage for a few francs. I pull over and a young girl fills a paper cup for me.

It was there he found me.

First, as a thought, calling me to his ancient waltz. Then the whisper, so clear, so distinct. I look around, but shake it off, and return to the car, a bottle of the wine in hand. It is not wonderful, just a picnic wine. I concentrate on shifting gears, both in the car and my mind, and drive on to Narbonne. It is as though there is a magnet in the sea, and I cannot slow down now.

This day will be mine.

The beach at Narbonne is perfect. White sand extends far out into the cobalt sea, and gentle waves carry the laughter of children, so much like my girls, along the coast and into the cliffs. The beach is guarded, so parents on holiday laze in the sand, tanning bodies that have never been covered for this bath. While swimsuits are optional, it is France. Sagging buttocks and swaying breasts take their place alongside the taut thin bodies of youth. No one even glances twice.

Truly American, I put on my sunglasses, and study. My desire for anonymity, to lose myself for the day, is more important than ill-conceived modesty, so I slide out of the silken fabric of my suit. It is only as the sun's rays begin to burn my virgin skin that I realize I will not blend with these burnished Europeans, after all.

It doesn't matter. No one knows me here.

No one. I am free,

I tip-toe across hot sand to the cool water. The luxury of this salt sea against my nakedness arouses me. Gentle waves caress my breasts, my thighs, and my center with the exquisite subtlety of a sensitive lover. I draw in my breath, as there in the cool water, the touch is warm.

So here we are.

He is near, and I search for him. I sense his approval and turn to where his breath warms my breast, opening fully to him. Only then do I remember where I am, and feel heat rise to my temples. But no one watches this afternoon tête-à-tête; again, no one even glances up.

It's nearly dusk. The warmth is gone. The water grows cool against my skin, leaving gooseflesh along my arms and tightening my nipples to sun ripe rosebuds. I step out of the sea, shivering. The wind has changed.

I am alone again, and pick my way across the sand before dressing, losing myself in the crowd. The beach dress in my bag is pure white gauze, setting off the golden glow of my skin from the sun, and it drifts to my ankles. Pearl buttons close the front; I button half way to my knees and let the fabric swing loose over my bare legs.

The coastal cottages are filled with vacationers, so there is no room close by. I am given directions to a castle by the sea, expensive, but, I reason, worth the price. It is glorious, rising high and white upon the cliff, the salt spray softening the air. In my mind words come into form; yes, this will do.

I place the photograph of the girls on the nightstand, and fill two glasses with the picnic wine. The antique bed is high, and it is dressed in heavy velvet curtains hung from its canopy. Charmed, I surrender to its comfort and drift away. Enchanted dreams follow me, and I skip through centuries to find sunflowers laughing with the joy of new love, gentle breezes lifting tendrils of my hair to the wind. He is there, waiting. I reach out my hand to him, and awake to now.

"You have returned." I whisper half asleep.

The soft curtains flutter in the gentle breeze at the window open to the sea.

His familiar voice glides around me slowly, trembling, wrapping me in his warm embrace. "As soon as I could find you."

The satin fire of his touch ignites my senses beyond reason. I know this tenderness. He comes to me, framed by the four posts of the bed. This picture, too, has been the same for centuries. His lips smoothly dance against my neck, the sharp edges of his teeth press, gently, ever so slowly.

My body opens to him even as I sob in my mind, "I have so much to lose."

He hesitates, then pulls away from me. He takes his hand from behind my head and places it on the picture by the bed. I feel the sound, tinged with pain and sorrow and regret. "Then once again, I've come too late."

I stand barefoot by the window in the moonlight, and my silent tears gather and spill. I feel him leave me, and wonder how many lifetimes it will take, before we are together again.