He limped slowly, his feet scraping nosily on the ground, crunching leaves beneath his worn combat boots and causing the crows to scatter. Regions of graves reached out for what seemed like miles around him, leaving a dark ambiance of death and mortality all around.
He heard a howl.
He was unphased.
He chanted the song in his head, over and over, like it would make a difference, like it would fix the rut he was in, like it would take him back before everything went to Hell.
The song kept him going.
It was the only thing that kept him going.
I've got a pocket, got a pocket full of sunshine…
I've got a love, and I know that it's all mine, oh.
Oh, whoa.
Do what you want but you're never gonna break me,
Sticks and stones are never gonna shake me,
Oh, whoa.
She used to sing it, no, scream it at the top of her lungs. She'd dance around in her underwear and yell the lyrics, grinning widely as she used a spatula as a microphone.
He would admire her from the other room, clearing his throat obnoxiously as the music faded, letting her know that she was not alone. She would blush and pull her shirt down to cover what was exposed.
It never mattered, though.
Within minutes, their clothes would be scatter about the floor and her blush would be a raging red on every inch of her skin.
Flustered, naked, flushed, porcelain skin.
She was his pocket full of sunshine.
And she was gone.
It was a long time ago, but felt like just yesterday to him.
He leaned heavily on his cane and trudged by blurs of grey gravestones. He focused on keeping his breathing steady, though each step closer to his destination made his chest heavy. Heavier and thicker. Every inch of distance killed him more and more.
He saw the familiar sight in the close distance and drew in a quick, painful breath.
He stared at it, no, glared, willing it away with venomous eyes and hatred from the deepest part of him.
He despised that God-forsaken slab. It symbolized the end of his life, for his life truly ended with her.
Clare Diana Edwards
The name flowed so innocent, so beautifully across the stone. He ran his finger over it and tried to smile.
He just couldn't.
It was a beautiful gravestone, he would admit that. Appropriate for such a beautiful woman.
July 18th, 1993 – December 8th, 2071
No time was enough time for them. No life was enough. The years were too short, flying by before their eyes. Year after year piled up, adding numbers slowly to their ages, bidding adieu to childhood, adolescence, middle-ages and greeting retirement and grandkids like there was all the time in the world.
He ran a wrinkled hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and leaned heavily on his cane before dropping to one knee.
"Hey, beautiful. Do you miss me yet?" Eli whispered, chuckling at his own question, trying so hard to keep the tears in his eyes. "I'm sure you know how much I miss you… In case you don't, I won't tell you. I don't want you to pity me from up there... I'm sure you're having a great time without me." He smirked sarcastically, but there was a hesitance to it. "Emma had a little boy last week… Clare, you would have loved him. He's got the Goldsworthy hair already… And those blue Edward's eyes… The kid looks nothing like his father… It's all us, baby…" He pulled a crinkled photo out of his pocket and stared at it, his lower lip quivering as he admired the once vibrant blue eyes and soft curls of his now-deceased wife. He spoke to the photo, unable to tear his eyes away from his Clare, the love of his life. "It's crazy to think we've got 18 grandkids now… Every time I see them, I just think about us, and all of the memories we created… 60 years, Clare. How am I supposed to live without you after 60 years?" Eli put his head in his hands and let the tears drip through the cracks between his fingers. "Everybody misses you so much. Little Alex came over the other day. He's three now, can you believe it? Can you believe it's been that long? I don't want to believe it… Alex came over, and he went right into our room. He picked up the photo of us on the end-table, the one on our wedding day, and he started to cry… I picked him up and asked him what was wrong, and you know what he said? He pointed to you and said, 'I miss my grandma. When is she coming home?' I didn't know what to say, Clare. How am I supposed to tell that sweet little boy that Grandma Clare isn't coming home again?" He shook his head and sighed, pulling another piece of paper from his pocket. "Alex drew you this. He told me to bring it to you. It's some kind of alien with a flower… I don't know what goes through that kid's head. I'm sure he'll be a brilliant artist one day. All of them start out kind of peculiar… I wish you were here to see it. I miss you baby. Don't forget about me, okay? Please, Clare? Please don't forget me?" His voice cracked and he pulled himself up from the muddy ground, relying heavily on his cane. "I'll come back soon. I-I love you." Tears flooded down his face and he grimaced, the sadness in his chest so intense that he couldn't imagine facing it for another minute. He turned around one last time and stared at the headstone, still clutching the photo in his hand. "Happy 50th wedding anniversary, Clarebear," he cried, unable to hold back his emotion. "50 years since the most wonderful day of my life. I'll never forget… Bye, beautiful."
He placed the drawing in front of the gravestone and eased his way out of the graveyard, careful not to trip over the other headstones in the dark.
He placed the photo of Clare back in his pocket, and zipped it shut, to assure its safety.
As he walked each painful step away from his wife's grave, he chanted that song in his head, and clutched onto his pocket, knowing that it was the closest thing to holding Clare that he would ever get again.
I've got a pocket, got a pocket full of sunshine.
I've got a love, and I know that it's all mine.