We walked in the woods while it snowed. This much is historical fact. I myself remember the trees, the compass, and the blizzard. She remembers forgetting her glasses, and that I guided her home. At the time I didn't say it, but something came through the snow and touched my soul awake. That part is speculation. Later I would wish for machines to test my hypothesis. "Beauty seizures," I called them, and wanted them measured like the enlightened monks who sat in airless chambers while scientists watched them put their hearts to sleep.
Later that night I told her how the snow erased the difference between the trees and the leaves and the ground and me. She remembers me saying "I love you." But I never said it. Did I? I remember she wanted to hold my hand -- this was a bright spring day on the grounds of the church -- and I didn't want to. When I gave in she said, "See, doesn't this feel good?"
The machines showed a flat line. But when he stepped out the chamber, he reportedly felt quite fine.