Of That I Regret
What she thought was funny on the railroad tracks wasn’t. Twice I told her it rained earlier that day. One foot after the other, whistling Joy Division, she announced to the world each time she had taken more steps on the rail in a row. Always excelling. I watched her. Warned her of twisted ankles. She said to quit “lagging,” and I called her “imprudent.” She said to speak English. I loved Emma and never knew if she knew. I never did tell her.
Ten years later, I thought I found her again on the corner couch of Two Bar in New York, slender legs crossed with a toe pointed, whipping her cocktail straw with her lips. Chestnut bangs. Green eyes wandering across the walls decorated with things we could talk about, like half clubs and mounted animal heads. I sat down beside her. But it wasn’t her. There was a cushion in between us. I extended. The young woman smiled and introduced herself. Julie. We married two years later and never did have kids.
Emma.
Why is it her image I now conjure at my dead wife’s funeral?
Emma.
Carefree on the train tracks. Ten steps ahead. Balancing. Falling. Laughing. Looking back so I could see her dimples, or that maybe she could see mine. The house is quiet now. I lay down tonight, close my eyes and recollect. I drift. What little life I saved in these last moments, I would give freely to the young man on those railroad tracks.
Fall, Daniel, I would scream. Laugh. Twist your ankle.
Do something.
It was always her.
Thanks for the read. And your endlessly generous claps. They keep me going. If you enjoyed this story, you might enjoy this one too. Have a terrific day, you beautiful reader.
