here. Right next door if you need me. For anything.”
I nod and she bends forward to kiss my forehead. She stands and gathers her things, bringing up the rear of all the departing mourners. I can’t even rise to lock the door behind them. What difference does it make anyway? What is there left to steal? Every good thing is gone, including my heart.
A deafening silence falls over the house the instant the door closes behind them. It’s quieter than it has ever been, so quiet that I can distinctly hear the quiet tick-tock of the grandfather clock, the steady heartbeat of my lonely home. How time keeps marching forward, I have no idea. Doesn’t it know? Doesn’t it care? One of the most amazing women on the planet is gone, and yet she left with no fanfare, no applause or standing ovation for her final curtain call. Just one final breath in the darkness of night and it was over.
I stare at the tree. There are several boxes under it; all cheerfully wrapped, waiting for the intended recipient to rip them open on Christmas morning. It breaks my heart all over again that her boxes will never be opened. She’ll never gasp with glee when she opens up the box with the colorful scarf I had purchased way back in August, when life was still normal. There is a small box with a gold pendent, an eighth note, which I bought with my Christmas bonus. She had never been one for jewelry, but the simple design and the emotional significance inspired me to buy it.
My eyes travel to the upright piano in the corner of the room. I stare at it for a long time as I remember every muggy summer afternoon that I spent there, learning how to play piano because it gave my hands “something productive to do,” after I’d been picked up for tagging an ugly, old abandoned building in the neighborhood.
I could almost picture myself sitting there years ago, all legs and swagger, and not one iota of common sense. I could see her standing over me, patient and unmoving as she guided me through those reluctant lessons. I would get so frustrated that I was ready to tip over the bench and say to hell with all of it. She’d wind up her metronome and let it sway back and forth, telling me to concentrate. To breathe. To count out the beats and everything would be okay.
I took a deep breath as I counted each second on the clock, subconsciously willing it to go backwards. Take me back to those humid afternoons, take me back to the first day I stepped foot in this house, when I first understood the concept of “family.” Up until then it had been just me and Mama against the world.
What a revelation it had been that we weren’t alone anymore.
Now I am alone. Irrefutably and heartbreakingly alone.
The clock strikes midnight before I move from that chair. I haven’t eaten. I haven’t spoken. And, for about three hours at least, I haven’t cried. The fire someone started in the fireplace has burned out its last ember, allowing a chill from the cold night air outside to filter into the room.
I don’t bother with anything. I leave all the lights on, including those twinkling on the Christmas tree. I don’t worry about putting away the grief buffet in the kitchen. I can’t do anything more than lumber up the steps towards my room, simply because I need to sleep. I need to close my eyes and forget.
I stumble to my bed, where I fall on the mattress without shedding one article of clothing. I realize then that I had left my cell phone on my nightstand all day long. More out of habit than anything, I grab it to check if I had any missed calls. I have more than a dozen, with five of those belonging to Lori.
I sigh as I put my phone back on the nightstand. I’ll call her tomorrow, at a decent hour. There’s no reason that the both of us should fight through that first shitty night on Planet Earth without Susan, trying to cope with the knowledge my beloved prozia would never smile, or laugh, or joke, or console, or correct, or hug… or love… ever
I nod and she bends forward to kiss my forehead. She stands and gathers her things, bringing up the rear of all the departing mourners. I can’t even rise to lock the door behind them. What difference does it make anyway? What is there left to steal? Every good thing is gone, including my heart.
A deafening silence falls over the house the instant the door closes behind them. It’s quieter than it has ever been, so quiet that I can distinctly hear the quiet tick-tock of the grandfather clock, the steady heartbeat of my lonely home. How time keeps marching forward, I have no idea. Doesn’t it know? Doesn’t it care? One of the most amazing women on the planet is gone, and yet she left with no fanfare, no applause or standing ovation for her final curtain call. Just one final breath in the darkness of night and it was over.
I stare at the tree. There are several boxes under it; all cheerfully wrapped, waiting for the intended recipient to rip them open on Christmas morning. It breaks my heart all over again that her boxes will never be opened. She’ll never gasp with glee when she opens up the box with the colorful scarf I had purchased way back in August, when life was still normal. There is a small box with a gold pendent, an eighth note, which I bought with my Christmas bonus. She had never been one for jewelry, but the simple design and the emotional significance inspired me to buy it.
My eyes travel to the upright piano in the corner of the room. I stare at it for a long time as I remember every muggy summer afternoon that I spent there, learning how to play piano because it gave my hands “something productive to do,” after I’d been picked up for tagging an ugly, old abandoned building in the neighborhood.
I could almost picture myself sitting there years ago, all legs and swagger, and not one iota of common sense. I could see her standing over me, patient and unmoving as she guided me through those reluctant lessons. I would get so frustrated that I was ready to tip over the bench and say to hell with all of it. She’d wind up her metronome and let it sway back and forth, telling me to concentrate. To breathe. To count out the beats and everything would be okay.
I took a deep breath as I counted each second on the clock, subconsciously willing it to go backwards. Take me back to those humid afternoons, take me back to the first day I stepped foot in this house, when I first understood the concept of “family.” Up until then it had been just me and Mama against the world.
What a revelation it had been that we weren’t alone anymore.
Now I am alone. Irrefutably and heartbreakingly alone.
The clock strikes midnight before I move from that chair. I haven’t eaten. I haven’t spoken. And, for about three hours at least, I haven’t cried. The fire someone started in the fireplace has burned out its last ember, allowing a chill from the cold night air outside to filter into the room.
I don’t bother with anything. I leave all the lights on, including those twinkling on the Christmas tree. I don’t worry about putting away the grief buffet in the kitchen. I can’t do anything more than lumber up the steps towards my room, simply because I need to sleep. I need to close my eyes and forget.
I stumble to my bed, where I fall on the mattress without shedding one article of clothing. I realize then that I had left my cell phone on my nightstand all day long. More out of habit than anything, I grab it to check if I had any missed calls. I have more than a dozen, with five of those belonging to Lori.
I sigh as I put my phone back on the nightstand. I’ll call her tomorrow, at a decent hour. There’s no reason that the both of us should fight through that first shitty night on Planet Earth without Susan, trying to cope with the knowledge my beloved prozia would never smile, or laugh, or joke, or console, or correct, or hug… or love… ever
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