Last night I dreamed that there was a new baby in the hands of the field hockey coach from my high school. I looked at her in surprise, since as far as I know, she already has four children under the age of ten. This woman is someone I admire merely from afar, primarily because I find her beautifully shaped and faced, with long glossy brown hair and a dedication to athleticism in addition to mothering four stunning and smiley young people. My dream, therefore, took an emotional descent when she handed the newborn to my former sweetheart with the greeting of, “Here, hold your son.”

My dream self’s heart shattered at that moment, because here was this tangible, living, breathing reminder that somehow, for some reason, he and I hadn’t been able to make it work. He had gone looking for someone else and had found her, someone whom I can only hope to embody one day. He had decided that her body and her time and her love was more appealing than mine; so appealing in fact that he chose to combine his chromosomes with hers for a permanent fusion of history. This baby, this life, was proof that they had been together for at least some part of life.

Other than my memories, I have nothing tangible that proves we ever had such a thing.

All I ever wanted was a photograph of the two of us, sober and in love.
Maybe next time.