CW - bereavement
---
I'm not an idiot. I know what I am going 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 where I'm going and why. I hope no-one gets 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 in, 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
saying, 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 thought crosses my mind: I should prepare more and try again another
day. I dismiss the idea 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
it 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. A neighbour 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 inside--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 and to keep moving forward. 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 often forgot 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. The neighbours 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 there
that needs me.
