Edvard Munch

The first time they met, he looked at her, and they both smiled. The feelings he was having seemed familiar but new.

As she moved towards him, caught up in the moment, he could feel her breath on his face while she wiped away a tear. He hadn’t noticed that he was crying or that the emotion of it all brought tears to both of their eyes. His tears were flowing freely down his cheeks now, catching between his lips, as she softly pressed her lips to his.

His thoughts went to the place they always did — to his wife who had been gone now for almost two years — the love of his life. He didn’t want to kiss another woman’s lips, as it seemed like a betrayal, but at the same time, he remembered that she would want him to find happiness again, something he never believed was possible.

Through their mutual tears, their smiles would shine through, and he found himself cradled in her arms, enveloping him with love and acceptance of who he is now, a man who had loved greatly and had been consumed by grief.

The last thing he remembered was resting his head in her lap against her warm belly and closing his eyes, while many thoughts drifted in and out of his head. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but it seemed like the natural thing to do, and she didn’t wake him.

His eyes opened slowly to meet hers. They sat motionless, except for their quiet breathing. Her face was familiar to him. It was the face of the woman who had guided him gently and lovingly over the weeks and months to an appreciation of himself and a future again — a love for himself and for her, and a reconnection with the world.

Writer and copyeditor. “What doesn’t kill us gives us something new to write about” ~ J. Wright

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