Love Boundless
“It’s Complicated: Lit Up & The Writing Cooperative Contest”
“You can’t hold unto a dead man. ”
You said that to me a million times. But it can’t be true. Baby, it can’t be true, if I keep thinking of you. It can’t be true when I see you in my dreams and not just there, but here in my sitting room. It’s one of two things then. You lied or you’re not really dead. Maybe, a third. I’m full blown crazy.
I swear we talked for hours last Friday. You kissed me, like you always do, and promised to return. You always keep your promises. A man of your word. Oh! love of my life, how can I not love you? True to your word, you came. Albeit, at night. You kept me waiting all day, but I forgave you. You came, after all. I traced the plane of your face, marvelling at its smoothness, it’s edges and planes.
There was a mirror slightly facing us. I saw a reflection of myself, with fingers lifted and a wistful expression, touching nothing, tracing thin air. Bewildered, I turned to look at you. You were real. I knew this. I could feel you. You were not an illusion. I smiled. I did not want to worry you for no reason. It must have been the dark after all.
My mom called the next day, worried about how I was recently secluded, and how strange it was that I never came to visit anymore. I assured her that I was fine, even as I heard the distance in my tone, the distraction in my voice. She suggested I see a therapist. Hurriedly, I said my goodbyes and hung up. A therapist? I wasn’t crazy. Well, crazy in love. I snickered.
That night, as usual, you came. We sat together on the rug amidst sweet smelling candles and cuddled. Laughing softly, I told you about my day and reached up to kiss you. I heard a loud shatter and jumped back, startled. My mom stood a short distance away, shocked. I sighed, mildly irritated.
“Mom! You’re interrupting!”
“Interrupting what?". Her voice was strange, smaller than usual.
I rolled my eyes at her drama. Was she now blind? “Can you not see that I’m with my husband, mommy?"
I watched as my mom dropped to the floor, wailing and shaking her head in grief. “He’s dead. He’s dead. My baby, he’s dead. It’s been three months now. When will you get over this?”
He wasn’t dead. Of course not. That was nonsense. I quickly glanced beside me and saw nothing. I looked around, everything was in place. The candles. The blanket. The rug. But, where was my husband?
A horrible scene flashed in my head, of my husband’s pale face after the surgery, of his ragged breathing and fatigued voice. “You can’t hold unto a dead man, Lola. When I go, promise you’ll move on. ”
Quickly, I tried to block the memory. I plugged my ears with my fingers, tears flowing from my eyes. More images of a dug grave and mourning invaded my mind, even as I desperately tried to shut it out.
Honey, you said I could not hold unto a dead man. You made me promise to let go. And I did, I promised. But how can I not hold on when you’re alive to me? How can I let go, when I know you’ll be back tomorrow night?
My mom came to me, shaking me out of my thoughts. “Won’t you see a therapist? Will you not let me help you? Don’t you think it’s time?"
As I stared into her red-rimmed eyes, I knew she was right. My husband was dead. But no, not only that. I needed help. It truly was time.
