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.”

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