My father died when I was nine years old. My mother knew that he was gone even though she was not with him when it happened, because her mark burned in a way that she said she could not describe and then within seconds it faded and disappeared completely, as if it were never there in the first place. Then, about a week after my his death, my mother woke up to find that she had a new mark, a pale red one that was barely visible, but it was there, and with it came a new soul mate. My father had been gone six years and her mark did not burn any brighter than it did that first morning. Until December last year, that is.
We were on a holiday in New York City when my mother’s mark started getting darker. We had been walking down a street lined with shops when she stopped suddenly and winced. She had said that her arm was burning and rolled her sleeve up to find that her mark was a dark red and was shining dimly. She had looked up at me with shock and disbelief evident on her face and back down at her mark. When her mind finally registered what was happening, she frantically looked around, searching for another person nearby who might have received his signal that his soul mate was nearby. After what felt like hours of walking in and out of buildings, we actually found him just down the street from where we had been standing when it all began. From the second they made eye contact with one another, it was as if there was some magnetic force pulling them together.
As I step outside, the autumn chill hits my cheeks. I pull the collar of my coat up in an attempt to keep some of the cold off my face. I love the city. The way it always feels so alive, no matter the time of day. I walk slowly along the side of the road, watching people as they rush by me. Timekeeping is a big part of living in New York City, as I have gathered over the last two years that we have been living