Lost & Found

Lost & Found   

The train lurched forward, jolting me out of a melancholy daydream. The hiss of escaping steam did little to soothe my pounding head, as the clattering wheels screeched away from the station. My stomach churned in protest as I stared out the window, expecting the usual blur of industrial grime and graffitied walls. Instead, a sparkle caught my eye. Perhaps it was a trick of the sun, or the tequila talking, or maybe it was the spirit of Christmas coming to call. Whatever the reason, the shimmering light burst into a flame of curiosity, and like a moth to a bonfire, I couldn't look away.

Perched on a crumbling brick ledge, at least ten stories above the ground, stood a colossal figure, hands on his hips, red velvet cape billowing behind, grinning like St. Nick himself. Salt-and-pepper hair swirled around his rosy cheeks, a curly wisp falling over bushy eyebrows, just like I remembered. He was wearing flip-flops, khaki shorts, and a black t-shirt with the words “Imagine,” superimposed over a cartoon of John Lennon shaking hands with Santa. As if on cue, he whipped out a battered acoustic guitar, threw back his head and belted out a rip-roaring laugh. A familiar chord drifted through the vents of the train, echoes of a melody he'd played a million times on stage.

But it was his voice that stole my breath - a comforting tenor harmonizing with the wind, whispering secrets that we only knew. 

"Impossible," I gasped, pounding the window with my fists.

A man in a rumpled suit sitting opposite me lowered his magazine, a curious frown creasing his forehead. "See something interesting?" He jerked his thumb towards the high-rise and waited. 

I hesitated, then pointed to the overhang on a tall building in the distance, "Look! Up there!"

He squinted, then shrugged. "Just a dove, love. They always come out this time of year.” 

"But, but...the song!” I blurted out in disbelief. “And that guitar!” Mystified, I twisted the ring finger on my left hand, the simple gold band a stark reminder of everything I'd once had. "It’s not possible," I stammered, "It can't be him. My husband…he died last Christmas."

The businessman raised an eyebrow, a pitying smile on his lips. “Sure lady, whatever you say.” He flipped open his magazine, dismissing me and my delusions, as if they were just another crazy story in a tabloid.

Frustrated, I fumbled for my phone, zooming in with the camera. The image blurred in a pixelated mess. Through my tears, the figure mirrored my rock-star husband perfectly, a spitting image of the man I fell in love with, down to his lanky frame and the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. He looked straight at me, as if stepping into the blank space of our last goodbye.

Suddenly, he jumped from the ridge, a white-winged shadow sailing against the bleeding colors of the setting sun. For a heartbeat, time held its breath. The silhouette soared, gypsy guitar strapped to his back, majestic arms outstretched in a graceful glide. A trail of silver ribbons erupted from his feet, skywriting a hello to my heart. 

Each flutter lifted him higher and bolder in the cloudless skies, each flap rekindling a lost joy, bringing back memories of a kiss under the mistletoe, a sleigh ride in the snow, singing carols at a festival. Suddenly, a fierce gust knocked him into a dizzying spin, free-falling towards the concrete jungle below. I bit back a shriek, instinctively making the sign of the cross, desperately praying for his safety. Not again… I pleaded to the God of miracles. I can't lose him again.

My heavy sighs fogged the window, blurring the image of him spiraling downward. I clawed at the glass, a silent scream trapped in my throat. But there was no sound. Not from me, not from him. No sickening thud. No ragged gasps for air, no morphine haze, no brutal ending. Slowly, I peeked through my fingers, afraid of another tragic heartbreak. Instead, he flew past me, flashing a peace sign, a mischievous grin on his handsome face. Our eyes locked, his ocean-blue gaze holding mine, bridging the gap between two worlds, before dissolving into a thick mist. The clouds parted, and a dove emerged from the swirling vapor, its wings catching the sunlight like stained glass.

Shaken, I slumped back in my seat. Had I really seen what I thought I saw? Was I going mad? I thumped myself on the side of the head, and mumbled aloud. No more spiked eggnog at happy hour.

My fingers traced the outline of the window, still cold from where I'd pushed against it. That's when I noticed it. An iridescent feather clinging to the train window, shimmering with a ghostly light. I shook my head, wondering if my imagination was playing tricks on me. Squeezing my eyes shut, I opened one, expecting a clean slate. But the feather was still there. I clawed at the pane in desperation, as if the force of love could pull it into my palm. But the breeze had other plans, sweeping the quill away, swirling it into the endless rush of the city below.

My throat thickened with the familiarity of negotiating with grief. "Give me another chance...please!" I sobbed, knowing full well grief has a way of making me a beggar not a chooser.

"Excuse me," a uniformed official tapped me on the shoulder, interrupting my whimpers. "I believe this belongs to you."

He extended a gloved hand, holding my leather-bound journal, mud-caked with coffee stains and tears, my initials embossed on the cover. Startled, I clutched at my bag, rifling through its contents only to confirm the absence of my most-prized possession. "I—I didn’t even realize I’d lost it," I murmured, cursing my carelessness.

“Imagine that!” He tilted his head, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Things have a way of finding their way back when they're meant to." He rubbed his chin. “Especially nearing a cold winter’s night.” Without waiting for thanks, he turned on his heel, disappearing down the aisle as though he'd never been there at all."

Lost and found took on a whole new meaning. "You're back," I whispered to the journal, clutching it to my chest.

I never left.

My true love whispered back, his voice a soft caress tickling my chin. I flinched, a cool shiver running down my neck. The journal fell open, and there, wedged between the pages, curved in the shape of a heart, were the feathers of two turtle doves.