I recently stumbled across this piece I wrote in late 2008. It retold a pivotal dream. The writing is a little weak, but it still brings a tear to my eye. I hope you enjoy it. Please share your thoughts!
Yes, it was a dream. I’m still a little flustered:
I saw her as if through the reflection in a mirror – only a glimpse at first, but I was drawn. Was it to her beauty, to a sense of familiarity? I did not know, but I felt compelled to seek her. My eyes flowed across the room. There again that same image; I can see her, but I am not looking at her. I’m seeing a picture – a reflection. Something about her moves me. Odd.
She is slightly more round – not plump, just fuller – than I might normally admire, but I just cannot shake this feeling about her. It is unexplainable. She has a pleasant face, round with subtle features, her makeup merely an accent to her natural beauty. Her eyes are so happy. A glance from her would certainly inspire a smile from any man, but there is a depth there – a sense of long endured suffering, and of arrival. She has stories, no doubt, some not so pleasant, I’m sure. But while they define her, they do not consume her. Her face is framed with dark lustrous hair, sleek and smooth – glistening in the light of the room. She wears it down, no ornaments. The finest jewel would be made tawdry by the beautiful flow of those dark tresses, falling just slightly onto her shoulders, tickling her flesh.
That flesh which seems to caress the very body to which it belongs – smooth and sun darkened – disappears suggestively beneath the cloth of her dress to reappear again in the form of two beautiful legs. She is athletic; the power in her calves reveals that, but there is also grace. The eye is drawn as if with the stroke of a brush from her dainty ankles, perched atop her earthen colored heels, across those silky calves, gazing longingly at her supple knees – the mind urging the eye ever upward. One catches just a glimpse of the smooth flesh above her knee before the journey is stopped short, the remainder of the brush stroke flowing into the billows of her dress.
The dress is understated, the strapless bodice hugging a voluptuously athletic figure. The pale ecru color of the garment beautifully accents her sun darkened skin, and the subtle earth toned accents of her jewelry lend a sense of comfort that she carries so gracefully, one might believe she was born in the ensemble. She is the picture of elegance. She is comfortable in her own skin; she feels beautiful, and the joy she feels is transparent. Her smile brightens the room. I am entranced. I begin to wonder if I will ever be able to tear my eyes away from this picture.
I am eventually shaken from my daydream to realize, to my despair, that her smiles and the twinkling gaze from the depths of her beautiful brown eyes are directed to someone in the room – I had failed to notice that she was not alone. As I finally begin to digest the larger scene, I am forced to conclude that the deep happiness in her has a source in the tall, handsome man standing at her side. He is dressed conservatively, and seems to wear his clothes as easily as he wears his smile; a smile that seems to focus all of its light on the beautiful creature on his arm. He is well groomed – just the slightest hint of gray at his temples – and comfortable, there is not one ounce of self-doubt in this man; possibly made even more confident with the knowledge of the beauty whose heart he has clearly captured.
I can see the wisdom in his eyes, the self assurance, and the feeling that he has achieved his dreams, and that he is happy. As I investigate the lines of his face, I find myself returning to those eyes – those smiling eyes. The warmth in his eyes seems to radiate throughout the room, and I am caught in his gaze. His smile warms my heart, and I wonder if… I wonder. My knees seem to weaken for a moment, but I catch myself. My heart is racing, and the warmth is welling up inside of me. The smile on my lips is beyond my control, and I cannot seem to break the spell his eyes have inspired. With the greatest of effort, I tear my gaze away and return to the reflection in the mirror – to her.
That face. What is it about that face? I know that face. I work my way back across her features – her small chin, the full inviting lips, that pert nose, and those eyes. The other features are familiar, but it is her eyes that tease the back of my mind. I am lost again in those eyes. I stare into those eyes. They are so deep that even in them a reflection is played back to me. That reflection brings me back to the larger reflection, and as I stare thoughtfully into the mirror, I realize that she is not alone there. I also see him. My reverie is broken as I see the sensuality smoldering in his eyes as he moves closer to her, leaning toward her. I can feel his arm, so strong, pulling me to him, enveloping me. I smile as I turn to meet his embrace with my own lips.
I know that face. Her face.. my face.
Then I woke up.