It only happens once a year.

When the moon glows gold in the pockets of cotton weighing down the night sky and the breath joins the clouds in puffs of white.  When somehow you see warmth and feel cold all at the same time and your cheeks glow pink and your skin is like a pearl underwater.  When everything is quiet, but the lapping of the shore and the rustling of the leaves.

That's when she comes to me.  She steps with toes of air down the gilded staircase of stars and leans down to take my hand.  Once a year I feel the translucent powdery skin under my fingers as I bring her back down to earth.  And we dance.

They weren't so translucent when I first gripped onto them.  They were solid then, real.  I remember watching her fall into the lake, her pink dress disappearing under the water.  It took my legs a good long time to step, then walk, then kick forward through the thick water and pull her out.  Her head broke through the sparkling surface, shivering, gasping for air.  When she came out of the water, her golden hair had plastered to her face and hugged against her freckled shoulders.  She gulped in breath.  I was so scared back then I ran away before she could get enough water out of her mouth to thank me.

I chuckle softly.

It was the next summer that I saw her again.  But this time I saw her the way that a man sees a woman.

One year. 

365 days.

It's a long time for a seventeen-year-old boy.

I had let my bruises fade away.  I had stopped hiding my scars.  That old trailer in between the movie theater and the drug store became a forgotten dot on a yellowed map.  I had run, and I had let my feet take me to this lake.  The lake of my lady.

I can see now the exact spot she had been sitting on an old rock that jutted out by the twisted pine tree.  Her dress that day was blue, it almost matched the water.  Her bare feet ran lightly over the surface and with my fear still curled up in the faded trailer, I walked forward and introduced myself.

Her name was Elana.

My shining light.

We married in July, after I turned eighteen.

Sixty-three years ago.

I stand waiting at the edge of the lake.  I can't feel my feet any longer, they had long succumbed to the pulsing bite of the mountain's blood.  The birds keep singing, the water pushes mindlessly against the rocks, and I stand, staring up at the darkness above me.

Only once a year.

I clench my eyes shut tightly.

I feel a hot tear make a slithering trail down my pocketed face.

"Come inside," The words are quiet, spoken softly behind me.

I refuse to move.

"Please," A hand rests on my shoulder.

Something about the touch seems to crash down on me like thousands of pounds of weight.  I lower my head.

"She still could come," I felt the words leave my mouth, empty, far away, like an echo.  All of my words fall that way now.  Low, grave, empty, hollow.

They think I've gone senile.  Perhaps I have.  But I still hear their worried whispers.

"We need to stop this," 

"Why must we?  It's only once a year,"

"It's money we're losing to someone who's losing his mind,"

"He's grieving,"

"He's been grieving for ten years," 

"It's not like he has very long left,"

Not very long.  Not long now my lady Elana.

How many times had we repeated those words to each other?  When we were on our last can of beans and handful of rice.  When I lost my third job in a month. When the babies were coming.  When they came.  How many times had your smile greeted me as I walked in the door, ready to collapse from exhaustion and your goddess lips breathed new life into my soul?

"Why don't we wait inside until she does," 

The hand grabs onto my own hand and pulls before I can answer. I'm used to it by now.  The pushing.  The pulling.  The prodding.  Walking on egg-shells.  I've gotten used to being a shattered glass.  A ceramic vase that still laid bleeding on the floor.  My numb skin leaves the water and sinks into the sand on the beach, I nearly fall, but the ever-present hand keeps me steady.

She hands me that wooden stick.

"I'd like to stay out here for a little longer," I manage.

"It's getting cold,"

She has her mother's eyes; they stare at me now with the same look that Elana used to use with her.  I notice for the first time how she clutches at the sleeves of her sweater.  Even she now wears the mask of time, the sinking pieces of skin and wrinkles pulling at her eyelids.  I squeeze her hand with the little strength left in my stretched-out sinews, "I'll be alright, go on inside,"

With a deep sigh she squeezed my hand back and helped me sit down on the rock, Elana's rock.  I wait for her to go inside, but she sits down next to me and grabs my hand, resting her head lightly on my shoulder.

"Do you really see mama here?" She asked quietly.

"It's too early," I whispered, "She'll come in November," 

My daughter grabbed my arm and swallowed.

Her mama will be here, but her papa won't.

Secretly though, I hope that I can join Elana in the stars.  That we can dance down together, like we once did.  That I can hold her.  Maybe then my hands won't shake so much, and her hands won't be so transparent.

Maybe then my lady Elana and I can return to the lake like we once did.

But it only happens once a year.