And I Believed Her

She always said once she died her soul would be reaped by the wind and adopted into the vast breath of the world.

When she spoke of such fantasies I would smile and nod my head with every pause she took, encouraging her to tell me more.

I was never one for religion or spirituality. I didn’t believe in souls, life forces, or anything of the sort. I simply loved the sound of her voice. She spoke with such infectious passion, her voice strong and steady, but gentle and effortlessly smooth.

I imagine it to be what truth would sound like, if you could bottle it and release its tune whenever you needed a break from a world swarmed by lies.

The shine in her eyes and the enchanting sway of her hands almost had me agreeing with every word she shared. But I was never truly convinced.

Yet, in this moment, as I sit pressed against a cold stone engraved with the name of my favorite memory, I believed her.

I believed her in the way I would catch wafts of vanilla and the embers of firewood with every tender gust of wind.

I believed her as I closed my eyes and listened to the sounds of lightweight laughter, my heart beating to the rhythm of ghostly warmth.

I believed her when I felt tears I didn’t recall falling being dried by a delicate breeze, as if it were trying to whisk away my sorrow one teardrop at a time.

As I blearily opened my eyes to memorialize the natural scenery, I allowed myself to do what had become a blind truth embedded in my very being.

And I believed her.