Past Lives

Maybe it would be no more than a sweet nap under the blooming skies of spring. Perhaps I would wake up and recall my life as it had been, and all the ones before; like books in a library they would fill the beloved shelves of my gazing soul. Perhaps there you would be, just behind a page, and so a thousand years would pass by with the touch of my fingertips. And there I would be, the heroine of my forgotten myths, the dreamer who has forgotten how many nights she has spent dreaming. This was a life, I might murmur, and that one was too. And now, awake, I would gaze around me, marvelling at the many chapters fate has written, and wondering what my next dream holds. And would you be there? And would I recognise your face? Time has erased your eyes but left your smile—your parting gift to me. Who said that gods alone are immortal? Look at this, look at your smile; it has travelled through the centuries. Have I seen you since? Perhaps we are but the same troupe on that eternal stage, and every sorrow has been the same, every joy a rehearsal of the same story just with different lines, perhaps every love has been you. For whom do we rehearse? This rehearsal is truer than any play I have ever seen. May the fates watch me with their gentle gaze, watch our dance, every step, every spin, may they marvel at its perfection; at the end, as we take our bows, to you I will smile and whisper, “we have rehearsed all our lives for this.”