Category: 300

He pulled the sheets close where he’d kicked them away during the night. He had forgotten how cold the mornings were on the island; the cold slipping through the cracks in the old house, assaulting any exposed skin, burrowing deep into the bones.

Outside it was still black. The moon, so full and clear the night before had set, and the post-Solstice sun was still yet to gray the morning sky. 

He didn’t want to wake, but routine was routine. Then it struck him: he didn’t have to get up, so he crawled deeper inside the blankets’ warmth, and the morning’s silence. 

Mornings in the city were quiet, but it was city quiet. Traffic still stormed by on the I-5, bottles and cans rattled in the street. He’d sit most mornings over a steaming cup of coffee letting that calm wash over him. He craved it, a small escape from the demands of the coming day.

Here on the island there were no demands. There was little traffic, what cars could be heard were dull hums carried across the water. The quiet here was natural, and in the winter, more complete.

He thought of pulling out his book, but didn’t want to expose his arms to the cold. Instead, he lay there, contemplating what he would do with the day, unsure of what direction to go in but not wanting to waste a minute of it. To sit and read felt wasteful, but at the same time it was what he wanted to do. He hadn’t indulged a want in some time. The thought scared him.

The sky outside the window began to lighten with the pink and orange hue of the morning. A fresh start waited.

He pulled back the covers and placed his feet on the floor.

I stood over the stone and watched the raindrops explode off its crown. Waves thundered off the rocks below masking my silent sobs.

            Anyone watching would have thought me crazy as I tore at my shirt trying to rip the heart from my chest. With these two souls laid to rest beneath my feet it was of no use to me any longer, but no passerby would have known that. 

            They were another layer peeled back from my life. Aging me in the eyes of those I loved, bringing the mortality I always tried to ignore into clearer focus.

            I hadn’t been there at the end, had shirked my responsibilities as a member of their blood and avoided a final visit. I hadn’t known their end was coming, I was out trying to make my way in the world, but still, nothing is forever.

            I’d tried to live an invincible life, fearing nothing, trying everything. In each one of my crashes, they were there to pick me up and encourage me to try again. I had laughed in the face of their love more times than I could count and while I was gone they left.

            I raged against the dark clouds at the unfairness of it all. I wanted them back for one more day, one more minute, so I might tell them they had always been right, and to say a simple thank you.

            So I tore at my chest, for my heart was buried beneath the grass at my feet. Whatever was in my chest was a fraud.

            I looked at the rocks below their beautiful resting place and thought of what a betrayal it would be if I chased them.

            So I collapsed there on top of them, begging forgiveness, hoping the rain would wash away the pain.

            He never cried. He tried not to allow himself any emotion, but found he couldn’t stop the waves of sadness from washing over him. He ached.

            After he left, he had meant to send letters. Then he meant to email. Was determined to. Put it at the top of his priority list, and as with so much of what went to the top of the list, something else came along to move it down, so he’d pushed it away and allowed the old feeling of guilt to sit with him. The empty comfort left him safe, but hollow.

            Ma had encouraged him to send a quick email at Thanksgiving, said it might help boost her spirits if nothing else; treatment was taking a toll. 

            Again, intention, followed by delay led to guilt and no communication. What did you say? How did you make it sound right or convey the right feelings?

            When it turned out he would be following through on his promise and returning for the New Year, he wanted to email to let her know. Another visit was at the top of his list of things to do. He hadn’t.

            As the choir sang he thought of how much he would miss summer sunsets on the cottage’s front porch, her warm words and large heart. He was thankful he’d made the time to see her in the summer, but still wished he’d written; something as simple as ‘I’m thinking of you’ would have meant so much.

            His tears flowed as he added his voice to those around him. He had come back too late.

            Tears filled his eyes as he listened to the words echo through the church. Despite the packed pews, the voices from the stage reverberated throughout the vaulted ceilings, leaving those below feeling empty.

            He never cried. He tried not to allow himself any emotion, but found he couldn’t stop the waves of sadness from washing over him. He ached.

            After he left, he had meant to send letters. Then he meant to email. Was determined to. Put it at the top of his priority list, and as with so much of what went to the top of the list, something else came along to move it down, so he’d pushed it away and allowed the old feeling of guilt to sit with him. The empty comfort left him safe, but hollow.

            Ma had encouraged him to send a quick email at Thanksgiving, said it might help boost her spirits if nothing else; treatment was taking a toll. 

            Again, intention, followed by delay led to guilt and no communication. What did you say? How did you make it sound right or convey the right feelings?

            When it turned out he would be following through on his promise and returning for the New Year, he wanted to email to let her know. Another visit was at the top of his list of things to do. He hadn’t.

            As the choir sang he thought of how much he would miss summer sunsets on the cottage’s front porch, her warm words and large heart. He was thankful he’d made the time to see her in the summer, but still wished he’d written; something as simple as ‘I’m thinking of you’ would have meant so much.

            His tears flowed as he added his voice to those around him. He had come back too late.