by Timesprite
Sometimes, when I look around, I wonder about myself. I wonder about my state of mind and can see why people worry. I haven't changed this place. Not a bit, not in the two years he's been gone.
His coat still hangs in the hall closet. His boots are on the floor. All his favourite books still on the shelf, and perched next to them, the reading glasses he hated to wear but which I found secretly very sexy.
His clothes are all still in the closet. I wear his sweaters to bed,
or sometimes, when I'm having a good night, one of his
work shirts like I did when he was alive. His fucking toothbrush is
still in the bathroom cabinet.
I can see why they worry. I never packed up, never moved on. I think
they expected me to. Were waiting for me to vanish the moment the last
shovel full of dirt was on his grave and the last condolences past their
lips. But I stayed here, and I've lived each day as if he'll come back.
Kept the house the way it was when he walked out the door for what was
to be the last time. Slipped out of our bed before the sun had risen offering
a kiss and a soft 'I love you' before he vanished forever.
I think I knew.
The air was heavy that morning two years ago, hard to breath. And in the darkness, I looked at him, and he looked at me... we both knew somehow that it was over. He'd never sleep here beside me again.
We were dancing a dance that could not last forever, and though we knew
it, neither of us would give voice to the
knowledge. So that morning I blinked back tears and kissed him, saying
softly 'I love you, too' and pretended he'd be
back.
Of course, he wasn't.
I think I felt him die. It was like... like something burst free of
me and fluttered away on butterfly wings of light, left me with an emptiness
where it had been.
I'm quite sure I felt him die.
A part of me went with him, fluttering away to heaven or where ever
the hell our souls go, and I breathed out this gigantic sigh that had all
my fear in it. All the fear I'd ever felt for him. It all flowed out, and
should have been a relief. But instead it was the echo left ringing in
your ears after the music has ended. And all I felt was empty.
I don't remember crying.
I haven't put his things away for a very good reason, I tell those who still inquire about me on occasion. I can't. If I put it all away, I'd be denying his existence. I'd be denying my own quiet grief, grief I wear like his old clothes, worn soft by the years. I'd be turning away from what we had, and I won't do that to him. I won't do it to myself. I can't live my life, every day, pretending it never was, just because the dance has ended.
I sat there in the hours afterward, the phone in front of me, dreading
the moment it would ring. I was tense, wound tight,
waiting to leap upon it and hesitating at the same time. I knew what
the voice on the other end would say. What I didn't
know was what I would say. Was there anything to say? He was dead.
I knew that. I couldn't really think, though. I was a bit numb, I think.
I'd known for a long time this day would come. I was going to lose him,
that was inevitable. I just wished-
It never could have been enough. Had we both live a hundred years, it wouldn't have been enough. I'd let myself become so entangled in him that I couldn't really imagine being apart. Funny, that after so many years trying to prove that I was a strong, capable woman who needed no one, I let this enigma of a man snare my heart, and I hadn't tried to reclaim it. I'd never even protested, really, because he was in the same place. We'd captured each other and we weren't about to let go. We'd both lost too much in life to do that.
So I stared at that phone and waited. When if finally did ring, I looked
at it with trepidation, as if it were a coiled snake
about to strike. On the third ring I snapped it up hastily. I don't
think my voice shook too badly when I said 'Hello?'
The voice on the other end was calm and subdued, though to this day I can't clearly recall just who it was that had placed the call. The words were simple, 'I hate to tell you this, but-' And though my mind was screaming in protest I sat quietly and listened. Swallowed hard and said 'okay' when they told me they'd brought him home. He hadn't suffered, the voice assured, though how they could have know, I'm not sure. A platitude, I suppose.
So I drove to Westchester. It was raining at the time, which wasn't
helpful when I was already shaking so badly I was in
risk of going off the road. I hardly remember it, or anything that
happened those first few days. I'd say I was in shock, but the truth was,
I hurt too much for that.
They were more than kind to me, though Lord knows I didn't expect it.
I was little more than a phantom in their lives, even if I'd know their
son longer- and better- than they had.
Afterwards, the kids tried to convince me to come back with them. The kids- funny that I still think of them like that, though X-Force are grown adults now. More than capable for taking care of themselves. I guess they were as close as children of my own as I'll ever get. I always relished the time I spent playing 'den mother.' Still, the days in which they needed my guidance are long past, and I needed my space to grieve.
I came back here. I don't think it really hit me until I walked back
into our house that he'd never come home again. Even the funeral had seemed
unreal, like some one else's nightmare. But opening up that door and seeing
our home spread before me...
For the first time in a long time, I cried.
Not just the few tears I couldn't hold back in time. I just let go, knowing there was no one to see me, and even if they had, well, it was allowable right? I'd always known that one way or another, I'd be left alone. Even my luck wasn't strong enough to prevent that. And though, on occasion, I'd let myself believe that we'd have long enough, at least, I don't think I ever really believed it.
I was left with a lot of empty dreams. Our relationship always had a
lot of 'maybe's. Maybe, one day, we'll give in to all
the pressure and get married. Maybe we'll have kids. Maybe, someday,
we'll stop pretending we're still twenty five and
can take on the whole world. We never took them seriously though. After
all, our lives had defined us, we were still
soldiers, if aging ones. We knew what we really wanted. We wanted to
keep fighting. We loved the rush, the danger. We ate it up. As good a high
as any, except, maybe, the sex after finishing one of those missions.
I still have my fond remembrances.
I still miss him. I always will. And I doubt I'll ever find anyone else
to take his place beside me in bed. It's not that I've
stopped living, far from it. Time goes on. It doesn't wait for any
man, it didn't wait for him. But, if I want to be perfectly
honest with myself, he broke my heart.
I suppose I wouldn't have it any other way.
~Fin~