PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY
I saw worlds in her eyes. Once, the summer after my father died, we sat just off the road listening to passing cars drown the sound of the surf. I'd never before felt comfortable resting so closely to the cliff's edge, but her softly penetrating look assured me it would be okay. A breeze stirred the common tansies ringing our rock-strewn clearing and bathed us in a mild, organic sweetness.
She'd met him only once--shortly after the diagnosis. He held court in his favorite chair and regaled her with stories I'd heard a thousand times over and a hundred times differently. An understanding was quickly established between the two. I thought they might be meant for one another.
She gave me days. When I needed to cast my gaze over the sea and breathe deeply, anesthetized by an inability to comprehend the void of a man I wasn't sure I'd loved. Throughout the week, I had to be so many things to so many others, but on those days she let me be still and be nothing. Knees pulled to my chest, eyes set against the horizon, I clutched my emptiness and waited vainly to be filled.
As the sun withdrew, she whispered a kiss upon my neck. I felt for the first time her arm entwined with my own and realized she'd pulled herself against me. I turned to meet her face and, there, was captured in her deep mahogany eyes, flecked with gray. I let her take me over, and together, we swam in memories of my father.