When I was eight, I woke up one morning with a bad premonition. What caused that feeling was unclear, but there was something unknown that took me outside to my parent’s garage looking for my favorite cat, Blackie. The house had only begun stirring, so no one was around when my search took me outside the house.

A few weeks before, as my grandparents were clearing out the shed at their farm, they had uncovered an old telephone pole that had been shortened, painted white and converted into a basketball goal. It was delivered to our house on the back of my grandpa’s trailer and sat untouched for several weeks until my dad took a wood-handled post digger and began to carve a hole, several feet deep, at the edge of our driveway.

It was spring and, not too unusually for spring in the Midwest, the past several days were very rainy.

I looked at the edges of the house for Blackie, but the unknown feeling drew me to that hole, and looking down inside it, I saw the floating body of my beloved cat. I laid down in the mud and reached as far as my little arms could go. Fingers struggled, and grasped, until they snagged on a paw. Fingers clenched, forming a fist around the paw and lifted until my other hand could help, and I pulled Blackie out of the hole.

Sitting on the ground, holding the wet, already stiff body, I cried; not comprehending this experience, but knowing that something was different about my cat.

Picking myself up, I headed into the garage carrying the body, calling for my parents. I entered the kitchen. My dad was pouring pancake batter onto a skillet and I was holding my cat, dripping water in a small puddle on the kitchen floor.

It took a moment for my dad to register what was going on, but soon his arms were around me, gently prying Blackie from my embrace.

My dad disappeared to presumably bury the cat.

I was a blubbering, tearful mess, saying the cat's name over and over again.

My mom told me that I could go to my favorite bookstore and pick out a book to buy if I could only just calm down.

“Stop crying,” she told me. “Things die. Now wipe your eyes and we can go buy that book.”

A few days later, the trauma of it all was a distant memory.

Watching my daughter pack her doll, a plastic cheese sandwich, and a couple spare pretend diapers into her backpack—all for an afternoon hike—I wonder if her relationship with loss is the same for her mother as mine was with my cat.

For Eleanor, is it a distant memory filled with the occasional sense of “Mommy loved eating chocolate chip cookies” or “Mommy loved listening to this music.” It’s in these moments where I begin to get a little bit angry at her for taking Mommy for granted and not missing her as much as I did, but then I remember she’s five.

What will Eleanor remember of her mother? Will she only remember the sickness? When she’s older and is having playdates and sees other mothers interacting with their daughters, will she wonder why Mommy was too weak to play dolls or think about those times when Veronica yelled at her for singing too loudly when Mommy was trying to rest?

That day, we take a familiar trail, one that all three of us used to take. I let us go at Eleanor’s pace, not letting myself micromanage her as she scours the trail for shiny rocks to add to her collection. Somehow, after only a few hundred feet, I ended up carrying her backpack.

I miss her.

I miss my wife.

For so long she had been “Mommy” or “Wife” that it feels odd forming her name on my tongue, but as we’re plodding along this trail, I remember one of the early reasons why I said, “This is the one,” and it was because of her name. There was a certain elegance and refinement in it: Veronica Grey. And within it there was a certain decorum that was prescribed in the way you wanted to be around her. She drew people to her with her personality and wit.

Her extroverted tendencies made us even more of an odd match. When I was younger, my introvertedness combined with my seriousness and intensity usually led people to incorrect assumptions about my sexuality. Seriousness and intensity were my default setting. I didn’t know how to carry myself through social situations. I was unable to pick up on social or emotional cues without feeling completely mentally drained after a night on the town.

In retrospect, I believe that most of my personality traits were projections of the novels I read, movies I watched, and music I listened to. All those forms of media shaped an alternate reality in a world I didn’t feel like I fit in. By the time I entered adulthood, my idea of relationships were a convoluted mess.

If I had a checklist, I would have told you that I knew I wanted love. If you had asked for me to define love, I wouldn’t have known where to begin. It was a feeling, but it wasn’t until I felt that urging, that feeling of “you ought to” with Veronica, that I knew what love could be.

Before that moment, the idea of love was all about companionship. Seeking a connection—whatever that connection may be—with another person. All those times I felt passion or what I thought was love was just a fierce, strong connection; a rebellion against loneliness between two lonely human beings.

That sense and desire for a connection is even stronger now that I spend most hours by myself. Strangely, the moments when I miss her most are the moments filled with things we never did together, like taking out the garbage. I think it’s because of the quietness of those actions; that space between the house and the fence, in the darkness, where everything is still.

A night underneath the stars on a picnic blanket. The sensation of grass beneath our fingers as we lean into one another.

A multicolored parachute being flung into the air; laughing as Eleanor giggles, trying to grasp it in her chubby hands, barely able to stay balanced with her full diaper and undeveloped core.

Flashlights under the sheets of a blanket fort.

The sensation of warm skin underneath a cool sheet.

Lying on the couch, head in her lap, sinking into her.

There was a familiarity and comfortability we had achieved after only a few dates. There was a sense in our actions and how we responded to each other emotionally that we were, for lack of a better term, a good fit.

Veronica leans down, eyes closing at the right moment. Lips parting and meeting my soft, parted lips. They meet, compress and release. Breath steams and rises in the space between as the kisses carry on.

I tug her in closer, cupping the back of her head. Our tongues touch and I feel an unspoken need for more surging within her. I slide my hand down, my thumb caressing her jaw.

This cannot be real.

She feels alive, full and complete, and I want her more than I ever did.

My mouth is on hers, my tongue pushing in again, seeking hers.

A soft little moan escaped her lips. As it hits me, I feel swept away; I am gone.

She is my world and I am hers.

Veronica pulls back, just a little, and I watch her lips part, wet and pink from our kissing.

“I love you.” The words passed through my lips before I could stop them.

The idea of love had been building since we first met with that persistent feeling of “you ought to.” There was an immediate sense of relief in saying those words; it felt right. Saying anything else like “I like you” felt empty and not as true as what I was truly feeling.

Veronica’s eyebrow raised. “Why?”

I think I was expecting something reciprocal instead of the challenge, and for a moment, the logic behind my confession was gone.

“I feel balanced,” I begin after a moment of silence. “You keep me balanced. I’m not perfect, but you help me be better than I am.” I can hear myself talking and it’s not going well. This should have been one of those conversations I rehearsed in my head. Even now, thinking about those words and actions and where they led, I wonder if a part of my intensity was a calibrated and calculated plan to sleep with her, but then I remember my track record and tell myself that I’m giving myself more credit than what was due.

There’s silence between us, so I backtrack and say, “I’m sorry?” It’s more of a question than an apology, but she smiles and says, “It’s okay. I love you too.”

Our declaration of intent was complete. It wasn’t fueled by our momentary spark of passion. Neither was it fueled by logic; most evident by the lack of any substantive explanation. It was just something that was meant to be.

My intent was to take her out to dinner, but we never left her apartment. We sat talking for hours.

After a normal dinner hour came and went, we found ourselves in the kitchen cooking. Within the confines of that small space, for the first time in my life, I found myself perfectly in sync with another person. It was a dance without any choreography; both of us were aware of each other’s proximity.

Moving between tasks, cutting up this or that, sauteing, boiling, swapping spots.

The occasional brushing and touching of fingertips.

The occasional kiss with messy fingers or sharp instruments held up in awkward positions to avoid stains or stabbings.

By the time dinner was ready we were ravenous, so conversation all but ceased until Veronica asked if I believed in soul mates.

“I’m not sure,” I say. “I think I believe more in the concept of an alter ego.”

“A what?” she asked.

“When I’m with you, it’s as if you are another world; another planet. Completely different and distant as any other in our galaxy, but there is something about you that makes me want to leave the confines of my own world—the confines of my own ego—and journey to you.”

“Across a bridge?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say before shoveling another forkful of food into my mouth.

“As long as it’s a rainbow bridge.” And with that subtle comic book reference I knew that this was it.

There’s that silence again.

The meal ends.

I finished my wine.

She catches me looking at my watch and sees the look I get when I realize how late it is and start calculating drive-time and the impact it’ll have on my sleep and the following day.

That’s when she asks if I want to stay over.

We clear and wash the dishes, putting the few leftovers we have into glass storage containers and then place them onto overcrowded shelves in the refrigerator.

Soon the wine bottle is empty.

Veronica leaves me alone in her bedroom as she goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. I’m unsure what to do. Did she want to share her bed with me? Should I be a gentleman and insist that the floor would be fine? Presumably it was the bed and not the floor, because otherwise she would have left me in the living room next to the couch wondering why she denied my obviously sexy advances.

Would this be a prolonged cuddle-fest or would there be sex involved? Was I ready to take things to the next level along with the accompaniment of additional emotions, attachments, and awkwardness?

I unbuckled my pants and let them fall, only then remembering to remove my shoes. It’s at that moment, as I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to remove my shoes from underneath my bunched pant legs, that she emerges from the bathroom.

Veronica laughs at the sight.

Going to her dresser, she pulls out a t-shirt and puts it on over her dress. I watch her and she watches me watching her. She slides her dress down and steps out of it, the t-shirt barely covering her underwear.

I catch myself staring and dart my gaze back up to hers. She holds my gaze. It’s a challenge and it’s challenging to hold. I want to let my eyes drift and roam and soak in every inch of her, but to do so would cheapen all the moments that led to this particular moment.

Reaching behind her back, she unhooks her bra and threads it through the sleeves of the t-shirt, placing it on top of her dresser before reaching for the light switch.

It’s dark now.

We’re lying in bed, our bodies pressed together, arms wrapped around each other. We’re no longer talking but our lips still move: parting, meeting, compressing, releasing, testing, tasting.

My hand slides down her body, resting on her lower back over her shirt, pressing her towards me. She rocks her hips, pushing in deeper against my crotch. Taking my hand, she guides it back up, placing it on her breast, and I immediately feel her nipple harden beneath the gentle rubbings of my thumb.

Her breathing is heavier now.

I can feel her pulse beneath my fingertips. I can hear her heart beating as I feel it in my own chest.

Veronica opens her eyes and looks directly into mine, her eyes darkening to the color of an intense ocean storm and we sit there in silence, captured by each other’s gaze.

I can feel my mind slipping into hers, my consciousness fading into her, as she continues to kiss me.

She reaches up and cups my face in her hands and traces the outline of my lips with her fingertips and I feel the gentle breeze of her breath as she softly kisses my lips and my head fills with light and air until it feels like it is going to explode.

We continue to kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and the kisses grow deeper, stronger, and my body feels like it is on fire.

I slide my hand down and pull her in even closer as she wraps her arms around me and pulls me just a little bit closer into her chest and I feel so content, so content, so complete, so safe.

The world around us vanishes—time ceased to exist—and there is only Veronica. She is part of me and I am part of her. We existed only within each other's presence and sense of the present. There were no other thoughts to our motions, no pulling or testing from ghosts of the past or anxieties of the future. It was enough to just exist.

For a moment, I let myself pretend that there are no other people on earth; that we are all alone and everything that has happened before was just a dream.

I feel her fingers pulling my shirt up. I feel them running across my stomach so I pull my shirt up over my head and I can feel her hands on my skin, kissing me everywhere, all over my chest, on my shoulders, everywhere.

Veronica sits up, pulling her shirt over her head and for a moment everything stops as I soak in the sight of her.

I stare at her: Veronica, the first true love of my life, my soul’s mate, the one person I have always loved, always wanted, always thought about.

She smiles as I sit there frozen, her eyes glow. She holds her hand out, pulling me to her. Her touch is like a blessing, it wraps me in love, love for her, love for everything around us.

“I love you,” I whisper into her ear.

“I know,” she whispers back.

I leaned forward, kissing her on the lips before I slowly worked my way down to her belly, caressing the smooth skin with my tongue. Her moans sound like music and my only hope is that she will never stop.

Pulling back, I take in her beauty.

“Kiss me,” Veronica moans breathlessly.

I place a hand on her face and gently pull her to me, losing myself in the moment, the taste of her, the feel of her body next to mine.

“I love you,” she says.

“I know,” I whisper back.

We hold each other close and then move our bodies closer and closer until we become one. I can feel her tongue on mine and my eyes start to close as we start to move together, until all is eventually still and I start to breathe again, surrounded by a halo of her hair as she straddles me.

We move off of each other, not saying a word. Clothes are put back on and she falls asleep against me with her head nestled against my shoulder. Her t-shirt was pulled down slightly to reveal her shoulder. My eyes found a tiny mole there. I studied it until I fell asleep, memorizing its pattern.

I wanted more, but the voice of “you ought to” was quiet; it was enough.

“Daddy!”

And I’m pulled from my thoughts back to the present. My daughter is pointing off the trail where a herd of mule deer are gathering and foraging through the sparse grass and foliage. They heard her exclamation and looked up at us, assessing for a few moments before going back to their meal.

We find a small boulder just off the beaten path and sit watching the deer for a while. Eleanor asks questions. What are they eating? What are their names? She starts naming them. Most of the names are princess names, except for a young buck she names Mister Poopy Pants.

“Which one do you think is the mommy?” she asks me.

I’m quiet for a little while; listening to the wind through the trees, the sound of water moving through a creek in the distance, the muted voices of other hikers up the trail.

I begin to cry.

Eleanor looks up at me. “Why are you crying, Daddy?” she asks.

I don’t answer, so she takes my shaking hand in hers and continues watching the deer until, after some time, she roars a terrible roar and they run off and it’s time for us to head home.

Eleanor’s exhausted by the time we get home, so we do a quick, easy dinner, bathtime and an early bedtime. For a while I sit with her as she is falling asleep. Thankfully my mind is an empty shell. I feel at peace for the first time in a long time.

When I get downstairs, I get out the untouched journal a therapist suggested I purchase. Sitting down, I begin to write. There’s no plan or premeditation going into it, but as I write, I recall my faulty memory, and so my writing begins to form as a collection of memories of Veronica.

I stop, flexing my fingers, looking at my watch, realizing that it’s later than I thought.

Upstairs there’s a thump, followed by the sound of feet walking across the floor.

I get up from the couch, walking upstairs. This isn’t an unusual occurrence. Typically Eleanor will wake, cross the room for a glass of water, and go back to sleep. Other times, the thump is her rolling out of bed, usually followed by crying, which is why I think it’s the former.

Opening the door, I pause.

There, leaning over the bed is Veronica. She is stroking Eleanor’s hair and singing softly to her an old hymn, a children’s tune.. Eleanor’s eyes are closed. She’s deep asleep.

Veronica is wearing her typical pajamas: underwear and a braless tank top. She looks healthy; healthier than she has for the last two years.

“Veronica?” I whisper?

She looks up and smiles at me as she pulls up Eleanor’s bed covers.

I’m at a loss for words. My mind is racing, trying to piece together the logic of this illogical situation.

“I missed you,” I say.

And it’s only then that she fades from view.