There is a belief that I told you about paper cranes. Right away, you asked me to teach you how to make them.
I can still remember the creases on your forehead and the intense concentration in your eyes as I taught you how to fold that first piece of paper step by step. I can still hear your huffs of frustration every time you ended up with a crumpled, if not torn and very awkward looking piece. I remember kissing that cute little pout of yours. You'd smile and try again.
"Are you sure you're not doing this on purpose?" I asked suspiciously after kissing you for probably the fiftieth time. Not that I wasn't enjoying it.
"I am not! This is really difficult, love," you complained.
"You can do it, MK." I kissed your forehead then your lips. You went back to folding with a big smile on your face.
I remember your reaction after your first successful piece.
"MK, look!" you squealed. "I finally made one."
You were beaming when you showed it to me.
"Yey!" I threw my hands up with a smile on my face. "Your first paper crane. I'm so proud of you, MK."
I hugged you and kissed your temple. You hugged me back.
"Nine hundred and ninety-nine more to go and I'll finally have my wish."
"And what might that be, Ms. Howell?"
"You'll find out soon enough, Mrs. Galura-Howell," you said.
I kept laughing as you showered my face with kisses. The paper crane fell on the floor. So did we.
They say that if you make a thousand paper cranes, your wish will be granted.
I say, that's just bull. I don't believe in that anymore.
I've lost count of the number of paper cranes I've made.
They're here, scattered all over the house that we shared. Our home.
I've been making them since you left.
But three years and thousands of paper cranes later, my wish still hasn't come true.
More than a thousand paper cranes later, you still haven't returned.
More than a thousand paper cranes later, you still haven't given back the life and the laughter we had.
We were happy, weren't we?
We promised we'd be together until we were both old and gray and couldn't eat anything harder than mashed ripe bananas.
I laughed despite the tears. I remembered you doing a funny impression of how we would be like once we reached that age.
I finished folding yet another one of the thousands. It joined the others on the string that hung from the ceiling. They danced as the wind came in from the window.
They're colorful. A mocking contrast to how life has been since you went away.
I ran my hand through them as I made my way to the door of our bedroom.
I turned around to scan the room.
I haven't slept in here since you left. It's just not the same.
Your scent still lingers.
Memories flooded as my eyes landed on the bed.
I remember waking up and seeing you leaning on the door frame, barefoot, smiling, the breakfast tray in your hands.
