Seven beginnings

It was

The sudden feel of a warm hand taking mine.

An arm gently encircling from behind.

An awkward kiss in a quiet, sunlit room.

A searching look beside a merry-go-round.

A kiss at the front gate.

A hand softly coming to rest on the back of a neck.

Two foreheads touching after a bout of tickling.

Holding each other by the piano in the dark; lying back to back after an argument; stroking my hair late at night until I fall asleep; reading a tear-soaked letter from the homesick boy in the army; lying on park benches watching the leaves move; fishing on the jetty; stroking his fever-soaked forehead; the first scent of our breaths entwining; the terror of first-proclaimed love; the feel of fingers tracing grooves on my arm; the smell of fresh soap just before making love; an eleventh-hour silent confession; countless hours on the phone, long-distance; singing to him as he falls asleep; terminal dilemma, torn between two loves; kissing in the club, not caring who looks; driving in tender silence as the rain envelopes the car; seeing my hair on his pillow; discussing who to invite to our wedding; the boy on his knees begging me to forgive him; watching the lone figure walk away for the last time; the self-inflicted wound of cutting away love; weeping my soul away, clinging to him in futility; weeping alone, knowing he's gone.

Time lines, clear at first, get jumbled up. Memories mingle, jostling for prominence. Moments beginning, moments during.

And then, moments ending.

All beginnings must end alone.