And What I Wish For, I Do Not Know
A silent tear trails down her cheek, glistening in her eyelashes that flutter open and shut indecisively.
It is a tear for so many things, things that went wrong, should never have happened, never had a chance to bloom. Not merely a tear shed for the two people exchanging vows in the light blue afternoon glow, until death do us part not abstract and prolonged until many years into the future as it should be, but on the doorsteps, morbidly awaiting to tear them apart again.
The injustice threatens to burn her from the inside out, the anger, the frustration, every flicker of hope dying like a moth in the fire.
Sybil barely hears the vicar's words, barely takes notice of her grandmother's secret tears, of her sister's compassion, of the afternoon light enveloping the blue walls and the many flowers in a milky glow. In her mind, she sees the faces of all those many men she had washed and nurtured and sometimes held until death released them of their agony. Pained, burned, scarred faces, most of them nameless in the rush of her memories.
Have they all died in vain, fighting someone else's war? What is it all for in the end? All the pain and suffering. Or is there, underneath the ashes and bones, a purpose to it all? Like William's inevitable death has saved Matthew's life?
As a second tear gets caught in her eyelashes, blurring the room into a dichotomy of peacefulness and grief, bright swirls of colours, Sybil feels something warm but callous brush against her hand. She immediately knows. Remembers what it had felt like to feel his hand wrapped around hers with her flimsy gloves separating them. This time, she felt his skin on her own, no more barriers, nothing more to hold them back.
Her fingers fall open on their own accord, without any hesitation or second thought, just like they had done before, welcoming his gladly. They intertwine, brush gently against each other, and when another silent tear runs down Sybil's cheek, she lets her eyes fall close and simply holds on.
She knows it is dangerous, this intimate touch next to so many people who must not know the truth – not now anyway. The way her heart beats faster and the shiver that runs down her spine at the feeling of his skin, the gentle, reassuring, soothing squeeze.
Then again, had it not been all the more dangerous all those years ago, foolish even, outside in the bright summer's sunshine before the war changed everything, changed everyone, when he had taken her hand for everyone to see?
Nobody notices now, everybody's eyes blurred with tears or resigning indifference.
For a few short moments, she is not a lady, he is not a chauffeur, she is not rich and he is not poor, they do not witness the vows of a marriage that will probably not even be allowed to last the night. It is just them, no questions of doubt or purpose.
You may now kiss the bride.
She can almost see it. A ring on her own finger, a smile on her lips, his proud grin. Yes. Feeling his fingers wrapped so securely around hers, she can almost feel his lips against her own as a seal to all the promises they should be allowed to give each other.
How can everything in the world be so terribly unjust? That when she opens her eyes again she does not see a world where she does not have to be afraid of her own feelings, but a room filled with troubled souls, and a lonely tingling in her palm as he drops his hand. Her fingers ache as she wipes away her tears, and for a splint second, she allows herself to slightly turn her head, just enough.
It is all there, mirrored in his bright eyes, but then everyone around them starts to slowly come back to life, feet shuffling against the heavy floor, and the spell is broken. Once again.
..
That night, long after William has passed, she sits at the open window of her room, a breeze fluttering through loose strands of her hair under the starless night sky. She wonders. And wishes. What for, she does not know.