The Bustle in a House

-Emily Dickinson

The Bustle in a House

The Morning after Death

Is solemnest of industries

Enacted upon Earth.

The Sweeping up the Heart

And putting Love away

We shall not want to use again

Until Eternity.

xXx

She arrives at the cabin like clockwork. Like everything is normal. Like the world hasn't shifted.

The sun rises and sets. People travel to and from their jobs. Abbie comes to the cabin with coffee at 8:15. The world keeps moving forward, as if nothing has happened.

Unaware that his heart is broken.

She's gone. His beloved wife, who survived purgatory for over 200 years, is gone. Dead.

It came about so quickly, Crane hadn't even had time to properly prepare. To bid farewell.

It happens like that sometimes, death.

Yet, no one is truly ready when it comes. Whether it descends after a long, slow illness or crashes in unexpectedly, no one is truly prepared.

The person who has died is sometimes ready. His or her loved ones never are.

Dying is easy. Living is difficult.

"Ichabod," her soft voice rouses him, as it always does, the pungent smell of coffee mixing with the soft vanilla scent of Abbie.

He's awake. He always is when she arrives. He just hasn't risen. He cannot find the will to do so until she touches his shoulder and speaks his name.

She only uses his first name in this situation. Otherwise, it's always "Crane."

Truly, he's grateful for her attempts at maintaining normalcy. She gave him time to mourn, time to process his grief, but she does not allow him to wallow anymore.

The first morning was the most difficult. She had arrived at the cabin, not intending to drag him to the station, but to check on him before she went.

He wouldn't speak to her. Wouldn't look at her.

She had seemed to understand, but lingered, tidying up, picking up his carelessly-strewn clothes and the telltale glass sitting beside a mostly-empty bottle of rum.

He could hear her bustling about, being so infuriatingly helpful and understanding, giving him sympathy with a genuine sincerity that made him want to scream and throw his boot through the window.

How dare she be so perfect? Doesn't she know my wife is dead and I am dying inside? She has no right to come in here and help me cope with my problems.

She had brought him some toast and a cup of tea, setting them gently on the nightstand. He rolled away, unable to face her.

"If you need a bite to eat," she said, her voice gentle, understanding, but not coddling. It only made him angrier.

"Please leave," he had barked at the wall, cringing at the sound of his voice. He sounded like a petulant child and hated himself for it.

"Call me if you need anything," she had calmly replied. If she was stung by his tone, her voice did not betray it.

"Just go!" he had replied, even more sharply, his voice wavering with emotion. The words had come out of their own accord. He wished he could swallow them back in.

He listened for her softly retreating footsteps, but heard nothing. He turned, an apology on his lips, but she wasn't there.

The soft click of the door was all that greeted him. A moment later, he heard her car's engine start.

He rolled over, unable to even summon the energy to lift his phone. As much as he wished to call and beg her forgiveness, he could not summon the will.

Nevertheless, she had returned that evening with food in a red and white paper bucket.

Though he had behaved deplorably, she had returned and brought him dinner.

"Miss Mills…" he had started to apologize, having gone over the words again and again in between his regretful thoughts about Katrina.

"You don't need to apologize," she softly interrupted. "Crane, if there's one thing I understand, it's loss, okay?"

He nodded once, and gingerly reached for a piece of what was presumably chicken. It was drumstick-shaped and coated with a strange, crisp coating. It smelled wonderful.

"Southern fried chicken. You'll like it. It's impossible not to," she prompted, taking a bite out of her own drumstick. "Not as good as homemade, but the Colonel will do in a pinch," she declared.

He lifted the chicken to his lips as she had done and took a bite, not bothering to wonder who this "Colonel" is and what he has to do with chicken. The appreciative groan that escaped his throat surprised him more than it did her. She hid a small smile behind her glass as she lifted it to her lips.

"Times like these call for comfort food. Try some mashed potatoes, and don't skimp on that gravy," she said, reaching across to spoon some potatoes onto his plate. "Biscuit. You need a biscuit."

Katrina died on a Thursday. By the following Tuesday, Crane decided he could leave the cabin and attempt life.

Now, it is Friday; a whole week has passed. Abbie is waiting for him. He can hear her in his kitchen. It sounds like she's cooking.

She sometimes makes him a little breakfast while he gets ready. She never used to, but she had confessed she worried he wouldn't eat otherwise. "You're already too skinny," she had declared.

He feels better today. He is neither angry with the sun for rising nor the birds for singing. He is not angry that the world continues to revolve without Katrina in it.

It continued to revolve after I died, he muses.

But, you came back, another, crueler voice taunts.

It continued to revolve after Miss Mills' beloved Sheriff Corbin died. And General Washington. And millions of others.

It shall continue after I die yet again, presumably permanently this time. And Miss Mills. Abbie.

It is the way of things.

He adjusts his cuffs, secures his hair, and steps out of the bedroom.

"Ah, he looks almost human today," Abbie greets him. She can see he is feeling better, and it makes her smile.

"Yes, very droll," he allows. "I am feeling markedly better. My heart is not yet fully healed, but I am no longer wallowing in my misery."

"I can see that. I made you some eggs."

He steps over to her and places his hands on her shoulders. "Thank you," he says, looking into her deep brown eyes.

"They're just scrambled eggs," she says immediately, then, "Oh." He didn't mean the eggs. "You're welcome. No one needs to go through that alone," she says softly.

He leans down and kisses her forehead. "I shall always remember how you cared for me during this time. You are a treasured friend, Abbie, and I am most fortunate to have you in my life."

"I'm fortunate to have you, too, Crane. That's why I had to help get you through this. I can't save the world all by myself, you know," she says, smiling up at him.

He pulls her into his arms, hugging her. "I know. But, you saved me, and I am grateful for your tender care."

She wraps her arms around his waist, hugging him back. "Anytime, Crane. I know you'd do the same for me."

"A thousand times over," he answers.

I think I shall be fine. I know I will.

Perhaps not now, but soon.