the meaning of yesterday

Perhaps it was opening my recital at The Riverside Church with Hoagy Carmichael's 'Star Dust' that led me to make a mental note to look up Justin's birthday as I reveled in watching the bleak shells of civilization pass by in rain to the strains of Radiohead on the Metro-North. I had in fact forgotten what 'Star Dust' meant to me until I wrote the preceding sentence.


His birthday was today--August 14. August 14--the day he left the United States without a parting word for me, 365 days ago. August 14--the day I threw myself against the walls of my apartment screaming NO through tears of one who has forever lost her reason for living. And somehow I played 'Star Dust' today and subconsciously remembered his birthday when I couldn't even remember those of my parents.

I wanted to call him, so I checked my GCNA concert schedule to see where he was.

Two hours after my concert on the Laura Spelman Rockefeller Memorial Carillon in New York City, he performed a concert at the only other Laura Spelman Rockefeller Memorial Carillon in the world--at the University of Chicago.

The day of his birthday and the day he broke my heart became the day we were united by remarkable coincidences across opposite ends of the country. How could anything be mere coincidence when it involves Justin and me? Is some higher power, some carillon diety, reassuring me after 365 days of grief and despair, that fate intends us to ultimately come together?

I am afraid to believe it, because I am afraid to hope for anything from Justin. I believe my fear is wise, because my hopes for us have nearly killed me before. But to avoid the risk, should I then throw away what may be perhaps the greatest gift of hope heaven has given me this year?