L.A. Detwiler - The Widow Next Door

It’s true, there was a time in our marriage when things weren’t good. There was a large span of time when I didn’t appreciate what we had. There were a lot of missed moments because I was – well, who I am.

I can’t apologise for that. But I can apologise for not understanding what I had to lose. And it turns out, I had a lot to lose. The barren rooms surrounding me underscore this fact. I lost in the end, lost so much, and now I’m here, sweltering in the realisation that I didn’t win.

I couldn’t win, after all.

But before all the bad times, there were good times too. There were the moments when we first met, the moments of happiness. I know now there were beautiful times. I can see them now. I wish I’d seen them more clearly then. I wonder if he saw them for what they were, right up to the end. I wonder if he appreciated them, even when it was his time to go.

We were happy once. It’s been so long, it’s easy to forget that we were happy.

I think about that now, the good times, the quietness stirring feelings of regret. It is not the regret of him being gone that bothers me as much as the regret of lost time. Such is the plight of humanity, I guess. We don’t realise what’s important until it’s way too late, until the time has evaporated. Then, when we have time to appreciate what matters most, we’re alone, incapable of making up for those moments from our youth.

‘That’s enough,’ I announce aloud to snap myself out of my sadness. I decided years ago that attitude is a choice. I try not to let myself sulk for too long. Once you start sulking, you’re done for. What good will that do? There’s no denying that what happened plagues me, haunts me, ravages me. But I have to maintain some semblance of existence, which means I have to cling to the positives.

I have to. There’s no choice.

And right now, 312 Bristol Lane is helping me ignore – or maybe avoid – the past. Their love story is helping me see what could be, what’s left.

I return my attention to them. They’re still raking leaves, the pile sky-high now. She’s laughing, stretching out her long legs in the sunshine, leaning back with her face towards the great blue, contentedness radiating from her soft grin.

This is what Saturday mornings should be about.

I smile as I watch him, clearly feeling mischievous, kick up a pile of leaves at her. The dirty, dingy leaves fall onto her, clinging on to her clothes. One even lands in her hair. She screams, a shriek of irritation and glee simultaneously. It’s so loud, I can hear remnants of it through the window. I tap my fingers on my rocking chair, completely enthralled as she leaps to her feet and races after him, poking him, tickling him, even hitting at him as he laughs. He dashes through their front yard and a chase around the property ensues. They run like children on the first day of summer break, her laughter still heard as he begs her to stop.

After a few laps, they are both panting. He pauses, leaning on his knees, out of breath. A once-familiar warmth surges within me from witnessing their connection, a love I can sense from over here.

A beautiful love.

Then, in the front yard, right on the lawn, he pulls her in to him, smack against his chest. They kiss, a sweet kiss turning passionate. He pulls her tighter, and she rests her chin on his shoulder. They sway a little, and eventually he pulls back, twirling her as they dance in the pile of leaves.

It’s a magical moment, a moment way better than my television movies. It’s a real moment.

They stand for a while in the leaves until the moment fades. Then, he saunters to the garage for the leaf bags, and she stands, wrapping her arms around herself, smiling at nothing but the feelings left behind.

It’s my favourite moment since they’ve moved in. It’s an everyday kind of moment, but it’s the sort of moment that I’d give anything to have again.

I sit watching them swirl in joy, a pure kind of joy, as he returns with the leaf bag. They swoop down, scooping up leaves together, laughing despite the chore at hand. She playfully tosses a leaf here or there at him, and one sticks in his hair. Watching them in this simple moment, I feel like I could sit here all day, wrapped up in the splendid happiness of who they are together.

But before I can inhale peacefully at the sight, I clutch my head. A sharp pain radiates from the centre out, a piercing sensation that stabs into every nerve in my head. I squint my eyes shut, the throbbing pain ripping my brain apart, making it hard to think.

My hand massages my scalp, but it’s no use. The migraine is back and I can think of nothing else.

When the agony eventually subsides, a dull roar still echoing in my head, I open my eyes to look over at 312 Bristol Lane, hoping there’s still a moment to be seen.

But they are gone, presumably back into their cocoon of happiness, their home, and their love.

I rub my head once more, glancing back into my own living room. The house silently screams of coldness, of emptiness, and of something missing.

I meticulously turn my gold band as I stare at the photograph on top of the stony, dusty fireplace. Amos is asleep on the sofa. I reach out a hand gingerly, almost afraid to touch the glass, afraid if my fingers make contact with it, the fact he’s gone will be real.

Time eases the pain and shock of his death, but it doesn’t take away the burdens of loneliness and loss. It doesn’t make it easier.

For the fourth time today, I touch the chilling glass, eyeing the black and white photograph with both sadness and a smile. In the picture, we’re looking at each other, love radiating even without colour. There’s a rose bush behind us. I can still see the vibrant reds within the murky grey. One of my delicate hands shoves back the itchy veil from my ravishing curls. He’s staring at me as if he wants to devour me, and, if I remember correctly, I think he did want to, judging from the words he was whispering in my ear right after the camera flashed.

It makes me blush just thinking of it.

We were so young, so naive, so in love. I was so happy then.

Time was hard on us, as it is to so many. Still, this picture has always sat on this fireplace, a symbol of that perfect day. Each time I’ve seen it over the years, it’s been like a connection to the past. It’s a relic of the love we once had – the carefree, roses-in-the-background kind of love, where starry-eyed lovers think nothing could ever tear them apart.

‘So long ago,’ I say out loud to the picture, feeling in some ways like that moment was yesterday and in some ways like it was two hundred years ago instead of sixty-seven.

My hands shaking, I squeeze the photograph as if I can clutch on to us, on to the people in the picture. My mind wraps itself around the memories, good and bad, and my chest heaves with the realisation of all that’s happened. I’m suddenly desperate to hold on to what I see, and before I can stop myself, I’m squeezing harder and harder. I squeeze until my hand vibrates from the effort. I squeeze until I hear a punchy crack, the glass snapping right in the middle, the line weaving down my body in the photograph, marring the perfect, smiling woman.

I set the cracked memento back down, my hand finding the edge of the mantel now. I stare at my handiwork, the cracks now giving it a new feeling. I don’t know why, but it suits the picture. The imperfections make it better. My finger traces the cracked glass for a moment, and I marvel in the pattern, in the new texture, and in the picture that is still very much the same but also a little bit different.

I study the faces I know so well but that somehow seem so distant from me. The glass shifts slightly, leaving part of the picture uncovered. It will fall prey to the elements, to the air of life around it. It’s not protected anymore.