For you…
Week 8
Frank Liske park. I’ve found myself here a lot recently. I’m sitting on one of the benches surrounding a small pond. I can still make out the pencil graffiti from the aspiring artists or the couples from a time gone by. “Sarah & Eli 4ever. 2009". Wow. I wonder if that’s still a thing.
The occasional chid squeals from the peak of a swing behind me. A neighboring volleyball match amongst college kids is all tied up. Next point wins. Joggers and walkers cross my field of vision. Some in pairs, some alone, some with a canine companion. I watch a tandem of ducks. Aimlessly swimming. I start to feel restless and make for the wooded trail.
They’ve repaired the broken fence. The same fence we would cross.
I can still see the abandoned train tracks. A distant memory.
It was 2012. Maybe 2013. We walked along the broken planks covered in weeds and the occasional glass bottle, our hands intertwined. Sometimes we talked, sometimes we didn’t. We just walked. The only sounds coming from the lively cicadas. I remember when we walked off that track one evening. We fooled around behind a tree. I brought you back to your family for dinner after, catching a hint of blush on your face as you smiled at me from across the table.
We decided after five years to finally move in together. You wanted so badly to have a place we could share. A place you could decorate as you saw fit. I gave you full creative reign. Interior design was never really my thing. Your 1950's pinup girls still adorn the bathroom walls. The pun-filled jokes still rest on the refrigerator door (“Life is what you bake it.”). Pictures of us framed on our shared bookshelf. All detailing the different stages of our relationship. Some with friends, some with our adorable schnoodle. The greatest dog we ever had. Some with our precious 10-month old, Olivia. They’re beginning to collect dust. Even the Stephen King collection you dedicated two whole shelves to. One shelf bows out from the weight.
Sleep used to find me much easier before. I lay in the same bed. Olivia sound asleep. I moved the crib into our room. I don’t like to be alone. Sometimes she starts crying and I’ll put her next to me in her usual spot between us. The spot where I’d watch you play with her soft brown hair. We’d gaze up at each other. In awe that we created something so beautiful.
It’s been seven months. I don’t know what I should do with this bed. The same bed I watched you slowly deteriorate in. You could only hold our daughter for a couple of minutes. The pain becoming too much. You would cry about it. How I wish I could’ve held you. I’ll always feel like I could’ve done more. The pain was extreme for you most nights. But some nights were manageable. The night before it happened, it was one of the calm nights. We were in bed together in pitch black. I was close to a heavy sleep. But I heard your voice. A whisper.
“You’re my person.”
I felt a kiss on my forehead. I think I managed to mumble some inaudible response, barely able to stay awake. The next morning you looked so happy in your sleep. Like you were completely free of pain. It didn’t take me long to realize that your suffering had been silenced for good.
Sometimes Olivia and I will go have a picnic in the backyard. There is still sand in the blankets from the beach where we released you from the jar.
I’ve walked along this trail many times since then. My face is still contorted. I look behind me, expecting to see you and our daughter. Not far behind. Looking at some strange stick that caught Olivia’s attention. Such a weird child.
Now it feels like I can only see you on the dresser in lifeless pictures and in every dream I have at night and in every room I walk into. Still seeing your eyes. I’m pleading and afraid, full of love. Calling out from another place because you’re not here.
I approach the spot. Now the broken fence is no more. Vegetation spiraling through the metal grid. I need to return to that place. That place where you were in arms reach. That place where we talked of our lives together in forty years. That place where all pain was a pariah.
But then I think..
I could still cross this fence.
It’s not a formidable structure. I wouldn’t be caught.
But this fence is here for more than just to keep trespassers at bay.
It’s here to preserve. To preserve these wonderful memories I made with my best friend. To preserve the love that I had.
To preserve the love that I always will have.
I continue on the trail. Olivia is fast asleep in her carrier. I can feel her heavy breathing on my chest.
I smile.
