by Tessa Lynne
I don’t understand what is happening to me, but maybe it’s another remission. Physically, I know that I am feeling better. Mentally, I am probably off my rocker. They finally quit pushing their pain pills at me. I long for the night, when I know she will come again. I know that she is with me—she touches my soul.
Am I being visited by an angel? It is sensual, and even almost sexual, an overwhelming feeling of love, peace, and serenity. If I told Vince that, he would think his dad is getting senile.
Who is she? Why does she haunt my dreams? How is this happening? She knows things about me—my name, that I am sick, that I have a son. How does she know? Maybe I shouldn’t ask, only accept. She breathes life into me.
10/23
I have felt her again, and last night I heard the lyrics from an old song—the one about being lonely, hungry, some-thing about touch. How can I be feeling like this now? It has been so long since I held a woman in my arms.
I’ve sure given everyone here something to talk about. They can’t figure out what is going on with me. I only take the pain pills occasionally, and then it is more to make them happy than that I need them. I go to the hospital today for more tests. I hate them. Please, God, let it be good news.
A long day, but I feel great considering I can’t have much blood left for the undertakers. Her essence was by my side. She comforts me as nothing else can. I know she is out there. I just know it. Maybe there’s a chance for us to meet. I suppose that’s a stupid thing to wish for. What do I have to offer anyone?
10/24
No word yet from J.T. If it is bad news, I hope he keeps it to himself. That song keeps playing in my head, but I can’t remember who did it … Mary was here with her damn pills again and I asked her. She thinks it is “Unchained Melody.” I spit her pills out after she left. I don’t want to be groggy tonight.
I can’t believe it! What a night! I want to remember every detail. I almost made love to my angel. She is soft and gentle, with small hands that fit perfectly in mine. Her forehead comes almost to my chin. Her hair is a soft brown, her eyes are two blue sapphires—they say so much without a word being spoken. Damn! I hate these interruptions.
ParT II
A Love Story
11. Body and Soul
10/26 - 11/01
Dearest Michael, I write to give you some explanation of these last few days and nights. I picture you having just opened your journal and discovered this letter inside the front cover. I see the puzzled look on your face, then one of curiosity. Do you immediately connect it to your dreams? I will tell you what I know.
Last week, I was reminded of a brief contact we had more than twenty years ago, and I was told we had been destined to be together. In the hours that followed, I felt a connection to you far beyond that of a chance acquaintance. A few days later, my source told me of your illness and that our destinies had been changed after three missed opportunities to meet. They cannot be restored. I was devastated, sat numbly for hours, then finally gained some degree of acceptance. My grief was not for a stranger. I know you—your essence, your nature, what we would have been to each other.
I could not forget you and go blithely on with my life. I reached out to you on a spiritual level, from the depths of my being, and felt a profound connection. I saw glimpses of the life we might have had together and knew—had we come face to face for any length of time—we could not have denied ourselves to each other.
My source confirmed that I had reached you. So intensely had I felt it that I was not surprised but filled with awe at the possibilities of a spiritual connection. Michael, I long to be with you for whatever time is possible. I deeply regret that our paths did not cross in a more obvious and sustained manner many years ago.
A few days ago, I heard an old song, “Unchained Melody.” Do you remember those words that speak of hunger? We have touched so deeply that physical contact would hardly be more than what we share now, but I want to explore your face, look into your eyes and see there a reflection of my love for you. I want to feel your lips on mine, my hand in yours, the beating of your heart.
As much as I long for it, a physical relationship seems almost irrelevant, or at least separate from what we have shared on a spiritual plane. The depth of our experience leads me to accept that we will never meet. It is a fragile acceptance, one filled with longing, but, in this moment, possible. I cannot answer for the moments to come.
The second time I reached out to you, we connected so intensely that I wondered if we should end on that glorious high note. You already know that I could not restrain my heart from reaching out again … and again …. I will continue for as long as it gives you comfort and strength, serenity and fulfillment. Know that it gives the same to me. What we have shared has meant more to me than … I expect for both of us the closest experience has been our love for our children.
As I write, I feel the intensity of our connection and desire. Our brief experience, made possible by the assistance of angels, is more than what some have in a lifetime spent together. Believe me when I say we will be together in lives to come. You will have realized by now that I am no angel, but—filled with love and longing—the woman in your dreams.
Dearest Michael, I have had the best news. Permission has been granted for us to write, not only this one time but twice a week. Our angels have smiled upon us—they are our messengers.
We must agree to some restrictions. I am not to reveal my full name and neither of us is to refer to our location. I have promised not to search for you. If you were only an hour or two, or three or four, away, I don’t know how I could restrain myself. I believe it is farther than that. Can we be content with the limits imposed on us? Can we explore completely all that is possible and not waste our time on frustrated attempts to achieve what is not?
I long to feel your touch, to be with you in every way. It is almost frightening to imagine what we could have been to each other. Our experience thus far suggests that, if we were to meet, it would overwhelm our senses. Someday, somewhere, we will find each other, in the fullness of youth, and we will recognize the old souls within—they will not let us miss our chance.
You are to place your reply in your journal. I long to hold in my hands the paper that has been touched by yours, to see the writing of your hand, to have some sense of the physical dimension of your being. I am told that you may know my first name. It is Teresa, but I am called Tessa, or Tessa Lynne. Or, you may continue to call me your angel. Whichever name you choose, I am yours.
Dearest Teresa, I can’t believe this is happening to me. I knew you were real. Oh God, there is so much I want to ask you and so much I am afraid to ask. You said we are being assisted by angels. (Please—don’t tell me you are an angel too.) If we are truly being helped by angels, nothing should be impossible, but there obviously can be no future for us.
You must already know that I am dying. I was diagnosed with leukemia three years ago, had a quick remission, and then it came back a few months ago. I was started on a new drug, had a severe reaction, and was in a coma for five days. I haven’t told anyone this, but I had what is called a near-death experience and was given the opportunity to return to my life. It was not an easy decision, but my son will graduate medical school in two years and I want to be there. Now I have even more reason to live.
Teresa. That name sounds so good on my lips and the taste on my tongue is like honey. I say it with soft vowel sounds—Teh-rey-zuh. I feel that I have known you all of my life. I, too, know that there are other lifetimes and believe we have been together in the past.
Our song—it has to be our song. I hunger for you in every way a man can want a woman. I want to hold your hand in mine, touch your face, and look into your eyes to see all the love and longing I feel reflected back at me. You speak of physical love as secondary to our spiritual love. I agree it must be so, but how can I feel this depth of love and not want to hold you in my arms, kiss your sweet lips, explore every inch of your body.
I mourn our loss, bu
t I must keep alive in my heart a hope that the angels who have smiled upon us will relent and allow us to meet—face to face, heart to heart. As you are mine, I am yours.
Michael, are you familiar with the poetry of Kahlil Gibran? He is most widely known for The Prophet. Our experience prompted me to search for a small book of his work that I have had for years, since the time our paths so briefly crossed. It was not on any of my book-shelves or among the stacks of books scattered about the house. I finally found it, helping to prop up a three-legged couch downstairs. I am sending you one of his poems, torn from the book with care, the pages yellowed with time. “Tears and Laughter” reflects much of what I have felt these last several days. He speaks the language of the soul.
A moment ago, I felt you close and then, without intention, my fingers were touching my face, gently exploring its contours. Was it me touching you? Or was it you touching me? I could not tell. I know now why we cannot meet—it is because I could never leave you—too large a part of me would be left behind. If you sense the torment in my soul, that is why. I must try to sleep.
You are still here with me. I have wiped the tears from my eyes, or was that you? I could not sleep, kept reaching for you. My soul was not to be satisfied until we had finished what was started earlier in the night. I am reminded of a time when my marriage still seemed viable. We had made love that left me satisfied, physically. Then I collapsed onto him sobbing, heaving, deep passionate tears of longing and loss, not knowing why, only that something essential was missing. After last night, I know what it was—the full union of body and soul. Do you believe now that I am as much flesh and blood as you?
I cannot hide my pain from you. As I held you close, I knew in every fiber of my being what it would have been to have borne your child. I mourn the loss of what we might have had; you reach out to comfort me. The pain lessens—joy remains. You are still near, but I must begin my day.
My love, you are never far from my thoughts, but others take me away from you. I am home for lunch. Have you read my letter? I sense that you are deep in thought. Has it been too much? I long to be there to tell you in person, to remove some of the mystery.
Sometime in the night, I felt my soul reach out to yours. In return, I felt a touch so soft and gentle I knew it was not of this world. I thought I heard my name. Is it you who said it? I do not want to imagine anything, only to know what is real between us. I must somehow get through the afternoon.
My dear Teresa, such sweet words fill my heart and soul that surely I will die from their magnitude. Every word of your letter is imprinted on my heart. I long to hear your voice—one I have surely heard a thousand times before.
Were you with me early this morning? I felt your presence and held you in my arms. So strongly did I feel your touch ignite my soul that our coming together was love in its purest form. Oh my love, my sweet love, you have given my heart wings. Can anything in life equal this rapture, this passion I feel for you?
I am tormented. My tears fall freely, born of anger and helplessness. Why has God, in His infinite wisdom, sought to deal us this cruel blow? Forgive me, for I do not wish to speak of anger in letters to my love. How can I waste precious time on anger when my heart is so full?
Your letter is here. I knew I wasn’t alone. Yes, I believe you are as much flesh and blood as me, with all the wants and desires that are human. I wept with happiness and then with pain. I can think of no greater joy than sharing our pregnancy, watching you grow with our child in your womb, rejoicing every day that it was mine. I would not have wanted to leave your side. I fear we may have starved.
It grows late, but I do not want to quit writing—it is as if I take my leave of you. Your name is always on my lips. Do you hear my voice? Come to me, my sweet.
My dearest Michael, I have held in my hands the pages that came from yours. I have read with deep emotion your heartfelt words. They quench my thirst for you, like the first drops of water to fall on parched lips after days in the desert. My deeper thirst will be satisfied in the days ahead.
After last night, is it possible for us to know any more of each other? We were led by our spirits to a distant realm. Our experience was reflected in our physical beings but did not require our touch—two selves dissolved into one. I know pure joy, peace, and utter contentment. If we must be parted, we will yet exult in our triumph.
Like you, there is much I want to know, to tell, to explore. My daughters have been in and out as I write. Kenna and Callie are twins, sixteen going on twenty-one. The last few years have brought the usual teen dilemmas, times two, and some strong statements of independence. I had told them about the one I call my source and now a little about you. I finally convinced them our letters are too personal to let them read. As I write, the fourth member of our household is purring on my lap. Charkey is the last of a menagerie of dogs, birds, reptiles, fish, and a hamster.
I must try to sleep tonight, but I will spend the last moments of my day with you. Until now, there has been a communion of our souls. With your letters, I begin a relationship with the man, Michael. I like what I am learning about the man and want to know him better. I feel completely at one with the soul that lives within him.
Dear heart, where do I begin? Your letter asks so much and reveals so much more that I am a bit overwhelmed. I will stick to safer subjects and save my words of love for later. My days were fairly boring until you came and filled my life with such joy that I look at everything in a new light. Vince comes every day and brings my mail, reading material, etc. (The hospice is part of the same medical complex as his school.) When I am able to, I read or work at my computer. Since you entered my life, I have gained weight, have more energy, and I no longer spend most of the day in bed.
Are your daughters as beautiful and charming as their mother? Vince is all the family I have left. My younger brother, Danny, was killed in a car accident a few years ago, and my mother has been gone for almost ten years. My father lives in California. We were never close and have had no contact the last five years.
I want to know more of this woman who has captured my heart. Tell me everything—your likes and dislikes, your wants and desires. Tell me about Kenna and Callie. I always wished for daughters and maybe another son. You are so accepting of my dilemma. It fills my heart with sadness that I cannot be more of a man to you.
Yes, my love, I was safely, sensuously in your loving embrace both last night and early yesterday and then yet again this morning. Our passion was not to be denied. I longingly await your next letter.
12. The Invisible Choir
11/02 – 11/04
Michael, dearest of all I have known. Every word you write brings me closer to the man who conceives each thought, instructs his hand, and conveys with each sure stroke a message of such love as I have never fathomed. I do not believe the love of our souls could be any stronger. The love between man and woman has room to grow as we nourish it, cherish it, and take lessons from the lovers—many times lovers—within.
As I read your words, I cannot deny my longings for you, my ardent desire to meet. We are told they cannot be satisfied, yet I hope for a reprieve. I long for the warmth of your skin on mine; for the masculine textures of your body, in all its parts; for the scent of you, the weight of your body pressed against mine; and for the highly charged air between us as we not quite touch. I long for your greater physical strength and presence, which give pure pleasure to the very core of me.
I have my moments of despair. I walked today along a wooded river path, my steps slow and dispirited, my heart full of anguish for what we have lost. An ominous canopy of dark, brooding clouds reflected my mood—until I turned a corner and was met with the most gentle of breezes. The sun broke through at that precise moment, its golden rays penetrating the darkness, bringing back all the reasons for making the most of this hour we have been given.
I am sending you my favorite Kahlil Gibran poem, “The Playground of Life.” I have read it over and over again, the depth of our experi
ence merging with the truth of his words. He writes powerfully of the one hour in a century in which truth is revealed and a soul is rarefied by sorrow, lit by passion. His words have touched me deeply in their application writ large, but now they speak to me only of our love. Michael, this is our hour—the jewel we have been granted.
Vince is coming soon to take me for some tests, but I would much rather stay here with you. I pray you just experienced the power of our union as I did. Yes, my love, my soul, my reason for living, I was with you spiritually, physically, and so emotionally at the times you mention. How can I continue to question my good fortune to have found you?
Is there life after death, life after life? Yes, I believe there is, since before my near-death experience and most certainly after it. Tell me of your sources. What do they know of us? You suggest that they are not of this world; they can’t be, if you have had access to my journal entries. I do know a few words of French. I want to kiss them from your lips.
Were you in the woods? Did you feel my touch as I felt yours? Your essence, your being, breathes life into me. Teresa, my love, do you feel a little frightened by the intensity of our experience? I know it is not of this earth. You wrote of my pulling away. Only one time have I done that purposely, maybe as a test to see if you would call out to me to stay—you did.
Another interruption. I have come to detest them. I am going to fall asleep tonight with your name on my lips, beseeching you to join me. Come, my sweet love, and replenish me.
What a night that was ours—a precious stone cast into the still waters of a mountain pond, resting at the center as ripples of intense, sensuous pleasure overflow the banks. I feel the ripples still. The stone rests at the center of my being, between my heart and where I draw you in.