by Jove Belle

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Copyright © 2006 by Jove Belle. All Rights Reserved.

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For two weeks I’ve sat, watching the door. Waiting. Two weeks.

I watched as the rescue crew pulled you from the wreckage, not a scratch on me. I watched through the little window in the swinging door as the doctors shocked you, over and over, your body lurching like a rag doll as they yelled, “Clear.” I watched as the man closed your eyes and solemnly recorded the time of death.

A black parade of friends and family hugged and kissed and wished me well. They cried and wailed and moaned that it wasn’t fair. Life isn’t fair. You were so young, they said, so beautiful. You had so much left to do, so much life left to live.

While they talked, I watched as they lowered you into the ground, the pulleys working silently out of respect for the dead. They handed me a shovel. The ceremonious first offering. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

I couldn’t do it. I stood, shovel in hand, staring down into the deep hole. I considered handing the shovel to your mother and jumping in with you. I didn’t do it, of course. You would have scolded me for making a scene and then where would we be?

Your scent lingered in the air, refusing to fade, until I couldn’t take it anymore. Three days ago I searched through the house, letting my nose guide me, until I found every last scrap that had even a hint of lavender clinging to it. I started with the obvious - the dried petals from the garden. They were everywhere, tucked into china cups in the kitchen, between the pages of your favorite books, sprinkled over the curio shelves, mixed in with your lingerie. I dumped every last petal into the toilet, along with the bottle of essential oil. That wasn’t enough. It still taunted me, surrounded me, filled my senses.

There were sage bundles tucked in the back of the knick knack drawer in the utility room. I lit a fire in the fireplace and threw them in. Still, it wasn’t enough. That’s when it hit me. It was your clothes, every piece of fabric that ever touched your skin held your essence.

The cashmere sweater from the ski trip in Aspen? Into the fire. The jersey I bought you at the last Blazers game; the little black dress, cut down to there and up to here that drove me crazy every time you wore it; the long silk scarf that made you feel glamorous, like a movie star? All of it, into the fire.

Nothing worked. The scent, your scent, still hangs in the air, mixed with the acrid stench of burnt memories.

I put up the tree, just the way you like it. Twinkling blue lights, rose colored glass balls, and the snow white angel perched on top. I remember the day you rescued the ornaments from a flea market out on highway 148, clapping with excitement. “They’re perfect,” you said. And they were. Twenty-four perfect glass balls that the dealer promised were rare antiques. I scoffed. Rare antiques aren’t for sale for $1.50 from a guy named Vince on the side of the road.

The phone rang yesterday and I ignored it. The high, plaintive voice reminded me that my special purchase was available to be picked up. They didn’t know. How could they? I ordered it before the accident. A symbolic gesture of our future, that’s what I intended. We talked about it, you and I. You with excitement in your eyes, me with feigned indifference. The small cabin was your dream and, in my quest to make you happy, I had found a way to give it to you.

I left the house for the first time since the funeral. I had to pick it up. I couldn’t leave it there, unclaimed, abandoned. That’s no way to treat your dream. It didn’t take much to convince a photographer to take the picture. Blown up to eighteen by twenty, matted and framed with a door key in the bottom right corner, it was the perfect Christmas gift. You would have loved it.

You would have loved it even more when you realized that it wasn’t just a random picture. It was yours. Waiting at the base of Mt. Adams. Now you’ll never know.

Tomorrow is Sunday and I’m going to go to church. Your church. I know it’s a little late. Every week you asked me to go. Every week I said no. Maybe if I’d gone with you, just once, you could have shown me the way, given me just a little bit of your faith. Now I have to find it on my own. I can’t take any chances. I have to be able to reach you in the next life. I don’t know if they will let a Buddhist into your heaven, but I’m prepared to storm the pearly gates if they don’t.

I awoke this morning to the sound of your laughter. Deep and rich, it filled the room. In the moment between sleep and awareness, I smiled and reached out for you. Your side of the bed was cold and empty. Then I remembered. Desperation and loss, my near constant companions, returned to me.

I stumbled from the bedroom to the television in the living room – the source of my torment. The video of our wedding played all night long on constant repeat only to torture me in the cold light of day. I pushed the stop button and your face faded to black. Unable to stand the separation, I hit play and lowered the volume to zero.

The empty bottle of rum lay on its side, taunting me from across the room. I shouldn’t have drunk it. I didn’t want to drink it. I couldn’t stop. It dulled the pain to an almost tolerable point.

I know you’re gone. I know you’re not coming back. If the door opens, it won’t be you coming home at the end of the day. All I want, all I need, is the one thing I can’t have. You.

The End

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