In March I turn 45, I find myself caught in a whirlwind of reflection, my thoughts spiraling back to a time when my soul danced in harmony with another's— my first wife. God I love her still.  It's been a staggering 22 years since our paths veered into separate sagas, yet here we are, floating in the vastness of singledom, our hearts still echoing each other's beats across the void. The fact she's held onto my name, like a tattoo on the soul, isn't just serendipity; it's a siren call across the tempest of time, a secret handshake we never forgot.

Enter the curveball, the wild prophecy of Bill Hamon (a “prophet”) at our wedding circa September 8th, 2001, casting a spell that we'd traverse through the inferno before our stars could ever align. Joining the Apostolic Skull and Bones, surviving a wedding night car crash, and experiencing 9/11 during our honeymoon intricately wove our beginnings with trials and resilience.

It's bizarre, almost cosmic, how those words now frame our journey—a tale of two souls forged in fire, emerging with edges honed for a connection deeper than we ever fathomed.

This isn't just about walking memory lane; it's about the magnetic pull of unfinished business, a love story paused but pulsing with potential. The universe, in its infinite jest, seems to draft us as the lead characters in a dark comedy where the punchline is rediscovery, the chance of a lifetime to explore what could have been, with the wisdom of what was.

Imagine, for a moment, the audacity of reaching across the chasm of time and experience, hands trembling with the weight of what's at stake. It's a leap into the unknown, armed with nothing but the raw hope that the sparks of our past can ignite a future brighter than either of us dared to dream.

The shared secrets, the laughter that split the night, the silent understanding that wove through our every interaction(ok maybe not all)—these are not just relics of a bygone era but the foundation stones for a future masterpiece. Love, after all, isn't about stumbling upon the right person; it's about evolving into the right souls capable of reigniting a flame that burns down the church. Or…once again, like so many, many, years of my life. I am alone and grasping for air.

So here I stand, on the brink of action, heart glowing red with a concoction of hope, nostalgia, and a fierce courage. The question isn't merely if she has room for me in her life but if we can chart the constellations of our past, navigating by the stars of our shared history, and the calamities of the last two decades to discover a new universe that illuminates the future. This isn't just the next chapter; it's the chance to rewrite the book of us with a fight club ending everybody stands to cheer.

This hard life where love is both the most exquisite pain and the highest ecstasy, the thought of our reunion is the crescendo that could silence the orchestra, leaving the audience breathless. We might be bloody. We might be bruised. We might feel like love will never return to this life. But, as the spotlight warms the stage for this potential encore, I'm more than ready; I'm electrified, eager to see if the echoes of our shared past can resonate with the melodies of what's yet to unfold. Maybe, just maybe, Bill Hamon's prophecy was the clue to a treasure we're only now ready to claim, proving that the best, indeed, lies just beyond the horizon. However, she could just really, really, hate the DMV.