How I Know I Am In Loved

When I am 80 years old, old and bald, I’d clip a lock of her silver
hair while she is sleeping (being careful not to wake her from her
dream). And deep in the night, I’d go see a fortune teller.

“Who is she?” I’d ask the Gypsy Woman as I hand her one single strand
of hair (I’d be keeping most of it for myself). As I did that, I would
have inadvertently shown her the name engraved on my ring. The Gypsy
Woman would peer into her crystal ball, into my past, and say, “she is
your light.” And she’d be right.

“Where is she?” I’d ask the Gypsy Woman, leaving the question
deliberately vague. Not thinking, she’d answer, “she’s in a very
special place.” And she’d be right.

“Isn’t she happy?” I’d ask the Gypsy woman in a sure and steady tone.
She’d recognize this as a rhetorical question. So draping a piece of
cloth over her crystal ball, she’d sigh, and reach out her hands to
steady my crumbly, shaking hands,

“She wishes to live forever, but is not afraid of death. You have told
me so.”