CW - bereavement
---
I'm not an idiot. I know what I plan to do is impossible, or
worse, unwise. I've read books; I've seen that episode of Buffy. I know the
dead cannot come back, at least not to the way they were in life. I'm going to
try anyway.
I leave a note explaining to Jacob where I'm going and why.
I hope he doesn't get to read it. Barney gets excited when he sees me put on my
shoes and coat, so I give him a biscuit and lots of scritches while explaining
calmly to him he can't come with him, even though I know he doesn't understand.
I take an actual torch rather than just my phone although I may not need it: it
is, by necessity, a full-moon and therefore even the depths of the forest
should be fairly visible. I gather the other bits and pieces I need and set
out.
It is colder than expected, and I soon regret not bringing
gloves. Hands rammed deep into my pockets, clutching my various treasures, I
breathe heavily into the collar of my coat to feel the heat reflected back onto
my face. As I walk, I try to concentrate on the crunch of my footsteps:
practicing mindfulness even now. If I only think about this moment, right now,
I do not have to think about what's to come.
-
It is a strange experience to wake up a wife and go to bed a
widow. To lie there trying to wrap your head around the enormity of what has
happened while hearing the sounds of the world carrying on as normal. To wake
the next morning, and remember. For day after day to have a brief moment of uncertainty
- was that a dream? - before the certainty crashes back down. To then have a
day without that moment, to just know deep in your bones as you know the name
of the town you live in, to just have it as part of the background of your
world. To go back to work, and carry on with your life, as everyone else has
carried on with theirs. To pretend to others that everything is ok, and over
time to pretend to yourself as well. Only for it to suddenly hit you again,
with the full force of a 40-tonne truck.
-
After a while, I get used to the chill. I lift my head
slightly, to see the trees ahead instead of just the path. It is, in fact, a
beautiful evening, with few clouds masking the moon. I briefly pause and look
straight up at the stars, taking in the enormity of the universe. Then I
continue, reciting in my head the words long committed to memory, the folklore
found in a forgotten book in the library that guides me tonight.
-
When we viewed the house that would become ours, she fell in
love with it all. A 1930's semi, just like the ones she grew up, she went from
room to room gasping and suggesting colours and furniture arrangements. She
grumbled a little at the out-dated kitchen but immediately saw the potential
for improvement, how it could be turned into her dream. My only contribution
was, on entering the second bedroom, "This could be a library." She
laughed and hugged me and said of course I could have my library. It's not that
she didn't also like books, she read more than me, she just had so many other
hobbies and I only the one. She also had such a vivid imagination — walking
around that half decorated empty building, she saw our future home. I saw only
the work that would be needed to make it that.
When I called the estate agent that evening to put in our
offer, she was surprised. I thought you weren't that keen, she said. Don't rush
into anything if you're not both committed, it's a big step. Are you kidding, I
said. It made my wife so happy.
-
Eventually I reach the edge of the trees. It seems further
than usual, probably because I'm so impatient. I just want to get there: to get
it done. I slow, not wanting to miss the spot. I still walk past it at first,
only doubling back after a few minutes when I realise I've gone too deep into
the woods. My dress rehearsal a few days before, when I walked as much of the
path I could, was in broad daylight. Everything looks different now and I curse
my mistake. A flicker crosses my mind: I should prepare more and try again
another day. I dismiss the thought immediately and concentrate on lighting the
tea light I've placed on the flat stone. I pull the photograph from my pocket
and look at by the flickering flame before tucking it under the candle. I carry
on.
-
Her death was unexpected but unexceptional — the coroner's
office sympathetic but efficient. Once the post-mortem was done and the funeral
was over, I was left with a few pieces of paper and a houseful of memories. A
dog who was grieving just as much in his own way, but who still needed walking
every morning. Friends who came round to make sure I was eating. I made my way
through the to-do list of admin, tied up loose ends. I was gripped by a desire
to do everything, and now. All the decorating we'd put off. The garden
revamped. Jacob helped me take box after box to the tip and the charity shop. I
went through her clothes three times, each time picking a few more things to
give away, and each time breaking into tears. I refused to leave anything to
another day that may not come. I made a will. I filled a notebook with account
numbers and passwords. I didn't know who would be left to tidy up after me, but
I made it as easy as possible for them. I visited friends and family. I went to
restaurants, cinemas and concerts alone. I bought every book, and eventually
more shelves to put them on. I joined social clubs, tried new hobbies. I gave
so much money to charity, any charity. I took up jogging. I taught myself to
cook.
That lasted almost two years. Then I shut back down again.
-
The wind is picking up, and a few spots of rain touch my
cheeks. I look skywards again, wondering at the lack of clouds. It is darker,
but I resist getting out the torch. I plod onwards, until I reach the second
stone. This one is taller and easier to spot, but the top is rounded and harder
to balance the tea light on. I have to shield the match from the wind in order
to light it, but my fears it would blow out straight away prove unfounded. I
turn her wedding ring over and over in my hand, reluctant to let it go. But I
take a deep breath and place it carefully by the light. I start crying as I
walk away.
-
We planned our fantasy wedding for years. One of us would
see a dress, or venue, or photoshoot and send it to the other. We made a list,
updated frequently with budget estimates. She crafted menus, I curated music.
She even made a spreadsheet with seating arrangements.
When the law of the land finally caught up, our planning
document had a country estate as the venue, her dress custom made by a friend,
my suit from an Etsy store, a local band for music, and food from our favourite
vendor at the street food market. We booked a date at the registry office and
invited six friends.
-
The rain is coming down hard, washing away my tears. I can
barely see. There is no longer really a path, I just trust I am going the right
way. I stumble into the first of the standing stones and find the one with the
hole by touch as much as sight. It takes four or five matches to light the
candle, which impossibly stays lit as I place it in front of the stone, the
precious strands of hair wound into a small knot beneath it. I crawl through
the hole and stay on all fours on the other side. I am overcome with weariness.
It should not have been a long walk to get here, but it feels like hours.
Dragging myself towards the mound, I pull myself to my feet again. I must go
on. I must.
-
I first saw her in the common room, explaining a board game
to a group of freshers. I eavesdropped for long enough I lost interest in my
book and wandered over to stand awkwardly nearby, watching the game. She
started including me in her explanations, and when the game was over, asked me
if I wanted a drink. I still thought I was straight and couldn't quite
understand why I was blushing. It only took a few weeks of game nights,
coffees, and late-night requests to meet at the bar for me to work it out. We
spent nearly every day since together, with only a few conferences or family
visits breaking the streak. When I finally worked up the courage to tell my
parents she was more than a friend, they already knew. Of course they did. It
was obvious to everyone. She'd transformed me.
-
Three times widdershins, although I can barely walk. The
words I'd memorised, although I can barely speak. I push forward, ignoring the
rational part that insists I would hit solid ground. I push forward, into the
wet earth and the darkness.
-
She'd always loved dogs, and I was always hesitant. We were
too busy; it would be unfair. We needed to get the rewiring done, a new
kitchen. We'd need a bigger car. We wouldn't be able to go on holiday as
often.
She'd walk it, feed it, pick up its poop. She saw the
picture of Barney on social media and forwarded to me. Just go and meet him, no
commitment. I couldn't say no. I could never say no to her. And while I fell in
love too, and welcomed him into our lives whole-heartedly, he was always her
dog.
-
I keep my eyes closed, although it makes no difference as
there is no light here anyway. I fall to my knees again, from fatigue and from
fear. I quiet the screaming voice - this is impossible! - and crawl forward.
The smell of damp earth closes in around me. I keep moving, as I have kept
moving all evening. All sense of time and distance has left me. I know only
here and now, but keep moving. I hear the running water ahead.
-
She played the piano so beautifully. She lived to teach, and
her students loved her. She never remembered when it was bin day. She was
deathly allergic to penicillin and never remembered her medic alert bracelet.
She filled our house with abandoned projects, and the smell of home-made bread.
She learned new games, facts and concepts on a daily basis, and explained them
to anyone who would listen. She took pictures of flowers, Barney, and me, but
never of herself. She made me laugh. She made me laugh so much.
-
I cannot breathe. I am sobbing too hard. I reach the edge of
the river, my hands splashing into the cold water. I can't remember what I am
supposed to do. I can't think of anything else but her. I try to say her name.
It comes out a hoarse whisper. I repeat myself again and again, trying harder
and harder until I can hear myself, until I am screaming. I reach into the cold
depths, push my head under water and fall forwards. I panic. And then I
consider letting myself fall. I feel the riverbed below me and stand. I break
the surface again and gasp. Crying her name, I reach forward and down. My hand
touches something. An arm. I grasp hold and pull.
-
I wasn't there when she died. Jacob found her and called the
ambulance. By then time I got home she was gone. I can't remember the last
words I said to her. I can't remember her last words to me. I can't remember
the last time we kissed. It has been five years and there is so much I can't
remember.
-
I pull her into my arms. It is her, it feels like her. It
smells like her. I whisper her name. I open my eyes. I still can't see. I hold
her tight and tell her I need her. I feel her face and pull her mouth to mine.
It tastes like her. Come back with me, I whisper.
"I can't." It does not sound like her. Not
quite.
Please, you must. I need you.
"You don't." It is her voice, altered. Broken.
I do. I can't do it alone. I can't do it anymore. I cling to
her and cry.
"You must." It is a whisper. But it finally sounds
like her.
She pulls away. I scream, don't go. Don't go. She slips back
into the water. I need you. Don't go.
She is gone.
I pull myself onto the shore. I lie, curled up. Don't go. I
need you.
I need you.
-
I awake on my back, shivering. The sun has risen, and there
is a mist covering the grass. I am cold to the core. I stand, and looking
round, recognise the field I am in the middle of, a few hundred yards from the
forest's edge.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
I open them, and head home. There's a dog at home that needs
me.
