The song of the same title by Explosions in the Sky has been begging me to write something ever since I first heard it, today I finally came up with the right idea (I hope).
Neither the song nor any of the CSI characters belong to me.
A poor man's memory
His hand is latched onto something. It feels cold under his grip, cold and lifeless. He tries to remember when her hand slipped from his, cold and white. He should remember it, should remember it as clearly as he remembers the moment he realized her heart had stopped its beat. His heart remembers, every one of its beats still searing through him every time there is a reminder of her.
And there are many, some he has searched for, some he has just stumbled across. Sometimes every day, sometimes not for months. But today, today is a day full of seconds, seconds stretching out to make room for the memories.
He looks at his hand. Time has passed since then. A lot of time, sand from an hour-glass, grains grinding lines into his face, still watering his eyes. He looks up again, too much time on his hands. Too much time to spend sifting through his memories.
They tore her away from him, wouldn't let her hand rest in his. He feels a hand rest on his, thinks for a moment he can see sparkling eyes above a smile. But there is no hand, no eyes, no smile. Nothing left but memories. Memories sinking into his skin.
He digs his nails into what he feels under his hand. Today is not the day he lost her. Not her birthday, not the day he first met her, no particular day at all. He doesn't know why today he's hit so hard again, but it doesn't matter, trying to figure it out does not take his thoughts off her.
He can't remember losing his hold of her because it never really happened. He never let go, never could, maybe never should. He can't remember her hand slipping away because he wasn't there. Wasn't there when it happened, wasn't there to protect her, wasn't even there to say goodbye.
People have told him that he could have done nothing, and he knows they are right. But time and again a little grain inside of him keeps grating its edges against his soul. 'If', probably the most painful word in any language. If she had been late for work…. If he had decided to meet her for breakfast that day…. If, if, if…, but how could he have known which one of these ifs might have lead to a better outcome of that day, how could he have chosen?
His head rests in his hands now. He ignores the people he knows are walking past, ignores their looks he feels gliding over him. It doesn't matter what they think, in truth, it never did.
He knows he's not the only one who's lost someone. But in that everyone is alone, emotions creating an ocean around individual islands. The losses he has been through have not been the same either; some had appeared easier to bear. Maybe because cause of death had seemed more natural, maybe because time of death had seemed more appropriate.
He feels someone approaching him, sitting down next to him. He can't look, not yet, though he knows who it is. She waits for him. Slowly his eyes steal over to where she sits, moving upwards from her feet. Landing on her hands, each one wrapped around a cup of coffee. For a moment he meets her eyes. She doesn't ask, in that moment she has seen in his eyes what he remembers.
Her hand doesn't reach out for him; she doesn't probe into him with her eyes. Looking down she waits in silence, knowing that he has to make the first move, the first step back out of darkness, the first step off of his island. She sees his hand slowly reaching towards her, folding itself around the cup of coffee and her hand, and not letting go.
"Thanks. Thanks for being here, for understanding, for …" he shrugs, "for everything you've been doing for me."
He knows she's smiling before he looks at her face.
"It's what we do, for each other."
He can look at her, into her eyes. Sparkling like rays of the sun weaving themselves through springtime leaves.