Amy and I studied colors in Ireland - the blackish-brown peet bogs, the raspberry-and-turquoise-tattooed sheep dotting the steep hillsides, the long and lush green fields, the stormy, chalky gray surf, and glistening black stones that line the beaches. We saw the Cliffs of Moher and got smashed on Bulmers hard cider in a castle in the middle of nowhere. I know it’s not revelatory stuff, just a simple and basic love. But the lady frees me up, eases me.

When we first made love more than two years ago, we undressed with Enya – she even loves Enya – singing and chanting in the background. Her small apartment was lit by ginger-colored candles, and she’d painted the four seasons on her bedroom walls. The light was flickering on the autumn scene on the far side of the room, as we laughed and rolled on her mattress. The tree was a gnarled, ropey oak and the foliage was spectacular.  There was the face of a lion-like figure in the blazing tangerines and yellows. His mane was thick, arresting. 

A part of me, of course, knows the lion never drew a breath, that he was a mere shadow figure Amy designed with cheap paint to ease her loneliness. But I also know, in the shifting candlelight, between our hushed voices and Enya chanting and guiding us on like some angelic mid-wife, that I saw movement and life. And I swear on my new and contented existence, on my faith in all things redemptive and right, that the lion was shaking his mane out beneath the colors, roaring along to something very real and true within us both.