Again, I find myself in this room with pale blue walls, fake plants, and cheap angel figurines. A line of people winds its way through other rooms painted pale blue with fake plants and cheap angel figurines, the universal sign of grief, apparently. Many of these places seem to be decorated the same way. I guess it is supposed to make people feel better, pale blue, but it just reminds me of loss. It reminds me of when I lost my grandfather, when I lost my grandmother, when I lost my father. Now she will be one of those I remember when I see pale blue, fake plants and cheap angel figurines.
It is hard to describe a room where your life is coming to an end. The details don’t matter. Later, though, you remember the strangest things like the water spots on the ceiling, the frayed carpet along the walls, and the place where a coffee stain peeks from under a chair that is trying to hide the dark brown on the tan carpet. At the time all you see is the big picture, the pale blue walls, fake plants and cheap angel figurines.
I fight back the memory of hollow words uttered to try to comfort. “We did everything we could, I’m sorry.” Like I care if you’re sorry. Would it bring her back, your sympathy? The words dig at my heart like it is being cut out by a spoon.
“But why a spoon cousin? Why not an axe or knife?”
“Because it will hurt more, you twit.”
Huh, I haven’t seen that movie in years. The mind must search for ways to make the pain not hurt so much. After all, laughter is supposed to be the best medicine. I haven’t been able to laugh lately.
I remember the other times I was here. For two the grief was not so great. My grandparents lingered for a while. We had time to prepare, if you can for such a thing. The last time was more painful. “He collapsed at work. He died instantly. He didn’t feel any pain,” the white coats told me as I waited in the lobby. “I’m sorry.” Hollow words to ease the pain that is all they are to me. No one can know if he felt any pain. They weren’t in his head. They could not feel what he felt, only he could. He was gone before anyone could find out so they assume he didn’t feel anything. Hollow words, they echo in my mind.
I wish he where here to help me now.
I drift in and out with the drone of words by the “well-wishers.” I lose my self in thoughts of her. Of when we first met and the joy I felt when I realized she was the one for me. I remember the time in The Gardens. We are by the duck pond with a bag of bread to feed them when they swim up. She lays her head in my lap, her perfume filling my senses with hints of rose and spice. I begin to whisper her favorite poem, “She walks in beauty like the night…” and she closes her eyes, listening, smiling. I gently pull the box from my coat, the ring I made for her, carved like ivy with diamonds and rubies nestled on top…
The line begins to dwindle. Jerry makes his way over to me.
“They are getting ready to close up. They will be back here tomorrow morning, if you want a little time with her before others begin to show up.” He tells me with the look of concern and relief in his eyes I have come to recognize. It is like the fish that sees another fish caught by a hook, he is concerned about the pain the other fish is feeling but relieved it isn’t him that is hooked.
“Thanks. Tell them I may be back in the morning. I’ll see how I am feeling. I’m not sure I can see her like she is. I don’t want that to be the last thing about her I remember.”
“Well if there is anything you need me and Jenny are here for you if you need us. Remember that.”
“I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I say and leave to get in my car, not looking forward to the nightmare tomorrow will bring.
I let my hands take over the drive. My mind is too crowded to think right now. Before I know it I find myself pulling into the parking lot of an old grey stone church. Ivy climbs up one end, the side with the squat steeple. Stain glass windows with pictures of biblical heroes decorate the sides. The front doors are dark oak banded to the walls with wrought iron hinges that flare out into arrows. We loved this spot. The unusual design of the church with the steeple opposite the front, unlike most churches we see. The best part of it was the view. It overlooks a lake that stretches into the distance to mountains that were usually ringed with mist.
I get out of the car and wander to the edge of the retaining wall that protects the church from the erosion of wind and water that would threaten it otherwise. The wall is concrete and steel up to the crest of the hill. Some member of the church built a stonewall along the top sometime in the distant past to hide the bare concrete and make it look more beautiful.
We would come here often at night to watch the lights of boats on the lake and feel the breeze on our faces. The cemetery beside the church gave the place a peaceful feel that was soothing, especially after a long day at work. I am taken back to a time we found our self here watching some lights zip across the water when lightning began to play in the distant sky.
“It’s beautiful isn’t it!” she exclaims as more flashes light up the sky. “I love watching the storms come over the mountains. It’s so powerful.”
“Yeah, and the lightning can power a small city with a stroke. Think what it would do to us if it hit us.” I say scanning the horizon trying to determine if it is just heat lightning or ground action. “I think we should go. I don’t want to risk being struck. It’s coming in fast, we should go.”
“Lightning is just God’s way to let us know he’s still there and rain is him reaching down to touch us.” She says pulling me back to her in a hug.
“But,” I explain pulling her tighter to me, “if the lightning decides to reach down to greet us we will be toast. Let’s go.”
“But, we have a great view here. Let’s stay for a little bit.” She pouts. “Please?”
“If it was just rain I would, but I really don’t want to be jolted. Come on.”
“Okay, but when we get home you are making me some hot tea and we are going to sit on the porch.”
“Yeah, yeah. Now let’s go before the lightning tries to shake our hand.”
Tears begin to roll down my face as I remember that night. I am not sure if I disappointed her. If I could do it all over again I would stay here holding her to me and watch the fire dance across the sky all night, even if I knew we would be struck. That would be better than the hell I am in now.
I get back in my car and drive home, hoping there will be some form of peace there. As I pull into the driveway I see mist curling through the garden, caressing the roses she lovingly cultivated, playing with the daffodils she planted so carefully in rows. She is here to say good-bye to what she loves. I have seen the mist before. It came before my grandfather was laid to rest, flowing along the ground, twisting as wind stirred it into little funnels. “The mist is daddy’s spirit coming to let us know he is leaving for home. It is his final goodbye,” my father told me as we watched it curl around the house. I have seen the mist too many times in my life.
I enter the house with thoughts of her battling with my sanity and I think I am losing. I see that the blue light on the answering machine is flashing incessantly, trying to get my attention, begging to be heard. I just stare at it not wanting to be interrupted but wondering if it will help my mind win the fight it is waging. I decide to just press erase, to let the words flutter away on a mechanical wind. I can’t face the words right now.
I look to the refrigerator seeing if there is liquid comfort there. Blaring from the door is the headline “What are you afraid of?” She found the article, about phobias that plague us and how to deal with them, on the internet. I remember the night she brought it home.
“What is your fear?” she asks as she reads the article.
“I have no fears!” I answer with a false bravado striking a superman pose. “Fear has no place in me.”
“I’m being serious Supergeek,” she responds wryly. In a more matter of fact voice she asks, “Seriously, what is your fear?”
“The only thing I fear is life without you.” I say looking her in the eyes, “I couldn’t live without you.”
“You sound flippant again,” she turns away, “If you aren’t going to be serious we don’t have to discuss this.”
“Who says I wasn’t being serious? I couldn’t live without you. I don’t know what I would do with myself if you weren’t here.” I sit next to her and reach for her hand, “I would rather die then be without you. I would do like the Greeks of old and bury myself alive with you.”
“That’s so sweet, a little morbid, but sweet. I love you so much,” she says kissing me deeply, “But I think the Greeks threw themselves on a fire not get buried.”
“No it was definitely buried, like Antigone, remember. I think the Vikings did the fire thing”
“If you insist, speaking of fears, being buried alive that is a big one…”
We continued on all night long discussing our fears, both silly and serious. Is there nothing that can take my mind from her? My sanity is losing.
A voice suddenly pierces the silence. I walk to the back of the house and see the radio is talking. A weatherman is giving his report for the evening, “clear skies and warm, no rain in sight for the near future…” I hear as I flip the switch. I guess I forgot to turn off the alarm. Four thirty in the morning, the clock says. So early to wake up, but we had to so we could spend some time together before we went to work. It was our special time. I’m getting tired of the past tense.
I fall into bed and pull the comforters up around me, trying to grab a little sleep before I have to be up to say goodbye one more time. Sleep overcomes my tired body as finally a truce is called and I am able to drift off.
I am standing on a beach beside an immense bonfire; a red moon drifts down toward the distant horizon. Around the fire all of her treasures are piled, what she loved the most. I pick up a stuffed animal, her dog. Its blue ears flop around my hand as I shake it like she did when she would pretend it could talk.
“Forget,” a voice whispers on the wind, “Forget.”
“How?” I ask softly, looking at the dog.
“Forget,” the voice whispers again.
“How?” I ask again, louder.
“Forget,”
“How?” I finally scream throwing the dog into the flames, “How can I forget my life?”
The memory of the dog slides away as the flames slowly consume it. I grab her jewelry box and pitch it into the fire and the thoughts of it also flutter away. I begin to cast more and more into the flames. In fits and sputters, her image desert my mind as what she loved is turned to ash. Finally, I hold the last of the pile, a picture of us on our wedding day. This one memory of her clings in my mind. I am ready to forget. I release the picture and it floats into the fire, but a memory persists.
“I destroyed them all, all that she cherished. Why do I still remember? Why is there still pain?” I scream, “Why are you torturing me?”
“Forget,” the voice comes back to me.
I begin to understand, not all that she loved is gone. There is still something. I look at my hands, “I am ready.” I say and step toward the fire.
I wake drenched in sweat and tears. I stumble from my bed determined now. I know how to end the pain. The fear begins to overwhelm; I must escape. I grab my keys and jump back in my car, racing back to the church. “I will not be afraid anymore,” I yell as a rip into the parking lot. Slamming open the door I fly to the wall, I will end the fear. I look down at the water and begin to step out. Boom… thunder rumbles in the distance and rain begins to fall. I step back off the wall. A mist begins to surround me; a hint of roses and spice is carried in the air. I fall to my knees and allow the rain to wash away the fear.