I’ve experienced an impossible reality; my dead boyfriend lives in me and shows me what he sees.
It happens still—not often, but there are days when I look in the mirror and see myself through my beloved’s eyes.
I gasp at my beauty and light up at the sight of me.
It’s not ego trying to gain on my good looks, or my slightly insecure self desperate to deny my faults.
No, it’s him. I see myself as he sees me.
Feminine. Bright. Easy and extraordinary.
Not flawless, but perfect with the scar on my lip—lips that call for kissing. Eyes that invite gaze. Body worthy of touch.
Seeing myself through his eyes, I feel love—intentional, chosen, yet gifted.
I’ve looked in the mirror for five decades, but not until my beloved’s death did I have this vision, this new way of seeing myself. It’s a subtle shift beyond my confident acceptance (which I worked damn hard to earn) and even praise (which served as affirming armor).
No, this way I see myself is how I saw him since the fateful few days when we slipped from friendship into the fire of love.
I looked at this man for years before I ever saw the treasure before me.
Overnight, I came to relish the sight of him—his eyes, moustache and stature that was all man.
I enjoyed looking at and touching his skin, face and long legs.
I took in the way he sat in his kitchen and office, smoked cigars and made coffee. And damn, did his smile light me up!
Now, all of that joy is mine again—from a glimpse in the mirror.
I see myself the way he saw me, the way I saw him, through the lens of sacred love.
My prayer is that I may learn to see the world with such eyes.