Right across my throat, a beautiful necklace with tiny glowing golden letters set in enamel? Ceramic. Gold chain. An early, singular Christmas present, and I struggle with my latin.
Shine with knowing?
Shine in the light, Peanut.
I knew I heard the phrase before. A kiss on the nose after he said it and I was in the spotlight, high up in the centre of the big top, as I swung across to my platform to wait for him to come to me and we would perform our aerial routine for eleven very long minutes (for us) and in a blink (for the audience).
I smile. I remember the gut feeling just before and then when he said that suddenly the light made that feeling go away, and all I could feel was his warmth. And then for real as he grabbed my arms as I abandoned my trapeze and I never heard the gasps, never saw the wonder and disbelief even as we did the pretend miss and he would go to one hand. He would have held on to my bone, leaving marks in the smooth whiteness. I never once thought I was in danger. Now I see that I was naive. Now I know I can never perform again. It feels like my hand will never be strong again and that's a new sort of grief, even as I made my peace with my age, responsibilities, centre of gravity and life choices. I knew I could still do the routine, however, and suddenly I'm aware that I can't.
I love it. I breathe. I can have this memory forever. It's not going to fade. It's not going to be forced from my brain for my own good. It's not going to be twisted or ruined by time.
I love you, he says in return with the same urgency. Forever and ever, Peanut.