It was the time of day that everyone seemed to find the most fitting for private outings.
After high noon, when the sun had exuberated all its heat and retired for the day behind the trees, after sudden splotches of color had made the sky a pastel canvas. The clouds had dissipated and the stars had taken their place, making a trail of glitter that lightly kissed the night time illumination.
It was this time of day that Flaky would be lacing up her boots and sliding on her coat in the entryway by the front door, stepping out onto her porch with the screen door slamming shut behind her. She would walk silently down the concrete steps and slowly make her way down to the subway. She would take her time down the steps leading underground, since her legs weren't what they used to be, and wait amongst the crowd standing around the empty track. When the subway would appear from the tunnel and come to a screeching halt, she would shuffle in behind everyone else, and would always nod in thanks when one of the youngsters offered her their seat. She wouldn't speak, just quietly look out the cloudy, finger print painted windows and hum along to a song she'd never heard before inside her head.
At this time of day, Flaky was particularly aware of everyone's existence. From the young mothers that passed her holding their child's hands to the tall business men who babbled into their phones and ran through the intersections in their black suits, she saw them all and became heightened. She would just know, and would see that behind the masks of routine and mundane lay a person all their own, one that had hopes and dreams and thoughts that thought of brilliant things. She saw a mind that held memories of pain and sadness, of joy and ecstasy, of guilt and regret. She hoped that under it all, under all the different weights of pressure holding their shoulders down, they were happy. She really did. She hoped now, in her old age, they wouldn't waste away and forget the gifts they've been given.
She would take the subway route underground 4 times before going around the downtown plaza and across the bridge. It creaked under her feet and made her legs wobble, and memories of a beloved hand leading her around all the cracks made her smile. She would trace her fingers across the edge, feeling the indentions and marks that grew larger and older each passing year. After trekking the park's path way and taking a short cut through some forest, she would finally make it to her destination.
She never paused, even though she grew more and more exhausted the more she made these trips, even though she could feel the arthritis screaming in her joints. She shut it all out, because all that existed in that moment was the grass and stone beneath her feet and the enclosed area of crumbling memories buried in the rows of headstones.
Near the back, exactly in the spot he had wanted, stood the small granite marker. The engraving was starting to fill with dirt and grime, but she could still plain as day make out the letters they had written together.
"Flippy. Beloved husband and father."
She didn't pay attention to the dates underneath it, because they lied to her. He had only been gone for 4 years, but it felt like 40. And feelings are sometimes so much stronger than facts. And he wasn't really gone. Just sleeping. Dreaming without her.
"Hello, dear," she would begin, sitting down on the grass and smoothing out her skirt.
Then she would spend an unestimated amount of time telling her husband all about her day. From the smallest details to the thoughts she had that seemed to be growing more repetitive. Her drive to live and be adventurous was long gone, withered away and dried up in her veins. It felt empty sometimes, but it was only a drop of loneliness in the well that Flippy left behind.
"I made you coffee this morning," she would say lightheartedly, resting her fingers on the cool granite and closing her eyes.
"You didn't drink it. I waited."
Then she would take a moment to listen to the wind, to the sound of the leaves rustling in the trees and the cicadas creating their regular orchestra. She would close her eyes and pray. Just pray. To hear his voice one more time. To feel a presence or find some kind of confirmation that he had kept his promise and was looking after her still. Even in his absence.
"It's getting harder," she confessed breathlessly, and this time she felt her voice go too soft to hear.
Everyday for 3 years she had made this trip. Sometimes with their daughter, sometimes with close friends, but mostly just by herself. She hadn't gone the first year, which she tried not to blame herself for. That year was spent rebuilding the life that had managed to stay intact. It wasn't much; it was like the foundation on a house had been taken away and left to stand on shifting sand. Never before had she felt so desolate.
But she found that, in moments like these, when you have nothing left and your reason for living has faded away, you feel a strange hope. It's not pure, in any sense. Its tainted and broken, thirsty and yearning. Clawing its way to the top to break out amongst the real happiness. This hope came from the shadows, the only small heartbeat to be found in the thorns. It was the whisper of a broken survivor, the only shred that kept you attached to the life raft. It was the thought that something impossible, something miraculous, could happen and give you a spark again.
Flaky's life had become a broken match box. All fiery and burning, then black and burnt out. No more light or energy. But she still existed, and sometimes she wondered why.
What good was an old bag of bones anyway?
Then she would remember the promise she had made to Flippy the night before he fell asleep and never woke up again. He'd been sick for so long, fighting like the brave soldier she knew he was, and he'd taken her hand and raised it to his lips, ghosting words over her palm.
"Stay strong. Live life without me. Don't give up. Because I'll always be watching over you."
And that was the miracle her hope wanted to happen.
That somewhere, somehow, his attention was on her. Gracefully and carefully. All her life she had been a Methodist, and in these dark days, falling back on her old beliefs and belief in the afterlife comforted her. She knew there had to be a heaven. Somewhere. Because where else would an angel like Flippy be?
No, he was still alive. Just in another place. Without her.
"It's horribly rude, you know," she spat bitterly, and broke out in a coughing fit. She wiped her mouth with a tissue, not noticing the blood amongst the saliva. Her vision was dusty.
I'm tired, she thought, so very, very tired.
Then she would move over to the empty plot to the right of Flippy, the one with her name etched into the unused headstone.
"Flaky, beloved wife and mother"
Sometimes she would sit against it and say the lines to herself and smile at the way they felt on her lips, and sometimes she would waste a few dried up tears.
But today, she laid back, her hat cushioning her wispy, gray hair.
She remembered the red hair she used to have, the nervous eyes that still had brown pigment, the skin that was light and not pasty.
She seemed so far away. Where was she now?
The moon was above, hidden in the cracks of the trees, and she smiled at the way it made the night feel brighter.
She thought of her daughter when she looked at the moon. God, she was so proud of her. The accomplishments she'd made, the shining star she had become. Her name in lights on the theatres in town and the music drifting through the radio in her home. She'd always known her voice was special, so beautiful a song bird would be jealous. And after years of encouragement, she'd made her appearance in the world. And luckily, it welcomed her warmly.
She'd visit Flaky every other Sunday. She had her own family now. A loving husband that she liked, even if he was a little too tall and lanky. She knew a child had to be coming soon. The thought of becoming a grandmother both aged her and made her feel younger.
Suddenly there was a tugging at her subconscious, and she remembered her fatigue. It came roaring back like a freight train, and she locked her fingers together and took a deep breath.
Tomorrow she would make coffee again and set the table for two. She would unmake and remake the other side of the bed and leave space on the clothes line. She would make an extra serving of dinner and play reruns of shows he recorded. She would put on the old perfume she'd only worn on special occasions and move around the house, hoping the happiness it had made him feel would maybe lure his spirit back for a second taste.
Tomorrow would be the same as always.
She closed her eyes.
Her exhale was carried away with the breeze.
Her veins stilled with a sludge of blood.
Her heartbeat was the sound of distant hummingbird wings.
Then silence.
No noise, no light.
For a moment, the nothingness she mistook for sleep scared her and she felt herself drawing away from it.
Then a familiar hand took hers, and she heard it, clear as day, striking as a bell.
"Welcome home," his voice said.
Her soul resumed.