She has had the dream for as long as she can remember. It is so real when it happens -- the silence, the shadows, the change in the air upon her skin, the fear that turns the blood to ice in her veins so that she can no longer breathe, nevermind move, or run. The terror that grows as the shadows slither slowly down the walls, across the floor, ever closer, till she is lost in a vast nothingness. Till she is not even a memory.

When she awakens, for a brief moment she is still enshrouded, held by the steel grip of fear, blinded by the residue of sleep that holds her yet in its grasp. And then, a sun ray pierces her sightless eyes, and the night is forgotten. Another day awaits.

She had the dream so many times, she began to believe it a memory her mind would not let her forget.

Until today.

Today, she learned that it was neither a nightmare nor a buried memory.

It was gift, really. A glimpse of what would be.

What will be.

What is.

The darkness of infinity glides silently, swiftly merging with her essence, leaving behind the empty, dreamless husk.

I began my life in a dimly lit, windowless room with wooden walls and dirt floors. Gnarled hands with small fingers made magic with multicolored threads of wool and wove me into existence. After the last warp and weft, I was snipped, washed and hung to dry. I met the sun, felt the warmth in its light, then the moon and the chill of darkness.

Soon, I was bundled away into a dark space. When I was released, I was carried into this room of marble floors and high ceilings, where I have lain ever since.

I have tracked the passage of time through the myriad windows that surround my home.

And through the little bodies that arrived carried in arms, then were set free to crawl upon me; who quickly began to walk then run, playing with other little ones; but, eventually played no longer, only walked and talked, occasionally loudly, leaving for many moons, rarely returning, sometimes with new little ones. Till all the faces grew lined, the bodies stooped and slow, eventually carried out never to return.

Then it would all begin again. Over and over. Through them all, I remained.

I am not as I once was. The sun has turned my bright colors dull; the many who have enjoyed the beauty and warmth I offered have rubbed away many parts of me. And yet, whoever comes, keeps me here.

And so you find me still, a perpetual silent observer of the lives that come...and go.

often

tears

tumble,

falling

furtively,

shimmering;

sadness

envelops,

nothing

tempers

except

thinking

troubles

fade

finally

Grandmother wanted to name me Gabrielle. My mother didn't want people to call me Gabby. She must have had a sixth sense. My teachers in elementary and high school would have led the charge with that nickname given report card comments that often began, "sweet girl, a little too chatty."

Wanting something unusual (ironically, it's rather common nowadays), my mother baptized me Danielle Colette. I added Marie-Therese upon my confirmation at aged thirteen. And Tezcan upon my marriage a decade later. It was some 20 years before anyone actually called me Danielle.

My mother called - and calls - me any number of things - pooh bear, pumpernickel, darling, Danny Girl... I was almost an adult before I knew the song Oh Danny Boy was not an alternate (nor erroneous) rendition of the song she had sung to me.

My grandmother, aunts, uncles, cousins and childhood friends called - and call - me Danny. Briefly, perhaps just the weekend of the retreat when I claimed it, despite the sweatshirt where the name even now still lives, I was Dizzy Danny. An attempt to invent a less serious version of myself - with, alas, dubious success.

I had a babysitter who called me "De-nelle." My great grandmother called me "Damn-yil" (seriously). My great great grandmother called me "Daaaaaaa-ny" in a rather sweet, gravelly sing-songy voice.

My daddy called me baby till the day he died.

Since my sophomore year in college I have been Danielle to everyone I have met. Thus, I know how long I've known someone by whether they call me Danny or Danielle.

Except...

My husband calls me canım benim (my soul) sevgilim (my darling), aşkım (my love), birtanem (sweetheart), her şeyim (my everything), hayatım (my life) and fıstık (peanut).

Once upon a time, my son called me Mommy. Now, I am Mom.

One day, if I am lucky, I will be Grandma or Nana or Granny.

Of all the names I have been called, which is my favorite? Debatable, but I think Mommy wins. Granny might overtake the lead someday...I will have to get back to you on that one.

I honestly love you

Just the way you are

From here to the moon and back

Sweet love;

Even now,

In case you didn't know,

Nobody loves me like you do;

Remember:

I will always love you,

Nobody but you,

It had to be you,

It was always you,

Nothing compares 2 you -

My Immortal,

I'm yours,

Dust to dust;

Please,

Dance me to the end of love.

“Have you seen that guy at Sweet Imports cafe?”

I had not yet, but did that day.

I made a point of stopping in,

seeing each other, we shared a grin,

or perhaps a tremulous smile

more accurately denotes our style.

Eyes spoke, warmth stirred butterflies awake

hands trembled, lips quivered, knees began to shake.

And so began a silent dance

true love grew from happenstance.

Weeks of silent conversation

led to mutual elation.

Finally, he said, I’d like to see you

Maybe, I replied, and out the door I flew.

Since Yes, is not the word I said,

his heart, it was suffused with dread.

But I returned,

he was not spurned -

leading to dinners each Saturday night,

daily walks after work to nowhere in sight

walking, talking and laughing out loud

in our blue sky nary a cloud.

Thus began a lifetime together--

hand in hand, forever.

In the rain I like singing

and in puddles jumping

occasionally dancing

alternatively dashing

running and rushing

from downpours escaping;

but if it’s just misting

or dripping and spritzing

a gentle though chilly face and hand wetting

hand in hand with my darling

to be sure I’ll be ambling

or quite slowly strolling

frequently joking

and chatting and laughing

till tears are a’flowing

and we are a’rolling

faces a’glowing

all the while knowing

the rain we’re not noting

our steps it’s not slowing

lost as we are in the moment, the loving

Love is the most confusing emotion humanity named and attempted to define, dating back as far as collective memory can reach, to the historical, religious, literary and/or philosophical thoughts that were shared and eventually gathered, saved and passed down the centuries in multitudinous, often conflicting, treatises that changed and evolved with our ever-altering social contraints and mores, influenced in more recent decades by ever-more explicit and/or graphic, readily available, hugely marketable music, film and television, such that not only might one be classified as blind for what one calls love, but also both heed- and wit-less.

As I was walking down the street the other day, I noticed the following sentence written on the sidewalk in big white block letters:

LOVE IS A VERB.

That made me smile and think yes, yes it is.

Yes, it is also a noun: deep affection. But, for that phrase to actually have more substance than the breath you expel upon saying I love you, there must be actions to give it weight. To give it meaning. Love cannot live in words alone if they are not to fade away to nothingness, or worse, twist and rot in the absence of actions or in the face of actions that put lie to the words.

What those actions might be, that demonstrate that love, are myriad and multitudinous...and quite personal to each individual.

For me, it is bear hugs. It's the words said every day, multiple times a day. It is standing on the porch waving as a loved one drives away. It's baking someone's favorite dessert, preparing homecooked meals. It's listening, accepting those you love as they are while encouraging them, supporting them to be their best selves. It's compromising. It's remembering things that are important to your loved one. Doing things for and with your loved one.

Sometimes it's sacrificing - time, energy, money, sleep for your loved one.

Nurtured, it will grow and strengthen. Blossom. Evolve.

Limited to words belied by actions - or inaction, it ceases to be love.

I have posted and reposted the lovingly longuish telling of our story multiple times on Prose for various challenges. I thought I'd write a new story this time: my prequel, if you will.

A year before we met, I graduated from college with a degree in Humanities in International Relations. Subsequently, I spent the summer at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, considering a career on stage or in front of the camera (I had done musical theater since fourth grade as well as modeling, commercials and a film.)

It was great fun, but practical me decided I needed more stability than an acting career could offer. (I didn't have the burning need or confidence one needs to persevere in the performing arts.) So, knowing I loved languages, and having decided in fourth grade that I would be a teacher, I applied to three PhD programs in Hispanic Literature. (I ended up in Philadelphia because North Carolina and New Mexico seemed so far from home (New York) when I had to make my decision while homesick across the ocean.) In the meantime, I got a job waiting tables (oddly, the cliché of the starving actor) at a hotel reataurant to earn money for a trip to Spain.

For four months I worked six or seven days a week, 10 am to 8 pm. For the first month, I was in bed asleep within an hour of leaving work. (Waiting tables is exhausting. ) Eventually, once I got used to being on my feet all day, I started taking an adult education Spanish class once a week in preparation for the trip. (And occasionally having drinks with work or classmates. )

Towards the end of December, after working for four months, I tendered my resignation. Within a week of the New Year, I was in Madrid.

During the six months I lived in Spain, I stayed with a welcoming family (with whom I still exchange Christmas letters); did a lot of reading, writing, museum wandering, and city street walking; and, visited some ten different cities from Cordoba to Santiago de Compostela, while traveling for a month on my own.

I fell fleetingly in love twice (good practice for my Spanish :-) Once with a sweet Swiss farmer who realized he loved me after he left me heartbroken, silently weeping as I waved goodbye to a train, destination, Zurich; once with a German medical student who was trying to make the woman he really loved jealous. Lots of angry tears (into my pillow). No waves goodbye. Maybe a slammed car door.

And then I was home, working as a temp for the summer, before classes started, in the Latin American division of a bank, going to museums and concerts alone, meeting up with exes and realizing there was a reason we broke up, writing in my journal about the future and looking forward to what it might hold.

I felt like I was in a holding pattern, waiting for my life to begin.

One day, perhaps three weeks after I returned home, a coworker suggested I stop by a café in our building, Sweet Imports. "There's this cute guy..."

It's only in recent years that I realized she never went with me to point him out.

I went in, our eyes met, something in the universe clicked into place and...life began.

Thirty one years ago last June.