Singular Swinging

The frost gathered about his breath marks on the windshield. He had been sitting here so long. Waiting. Waiting for courage. It was slowly wielding itself, taking advantage of his adrenaline. His breathing was coming hotter and faster and it dissipated the frost. It was almost time.

He stroked his hair for the seventh time. It was beginning to stand on end, making him feel wild, strong. It concealed the little bald spot that was growing wider everyday he lived without her.

It was time for confrontation.

It hadn’t been long ago he would sit on his porch swing, watching for her to return. Waiting for her to breathlessly come and sit next to him. She was as steady and sure as any great woman is; she always returned at the same time. Jogging was her passion. He thought it was the steadiness, the surety, that every step and every next step could take you somewhere. Take you towards home.

He had waited. But this time she hadn’t come. Instead, as he sat alone, he heard the crash, the sirens...the silence.

He was ready. Especially with the shiny blackness in his pocket. It didn’t feel heavy. It was a center of strength; something that made him feel powerful. It felt deadly.

Now it was time to confront. Time to free himself. The man would pay. The man who cared only for his Coors and his happiness. Whatever made him smile, whatever made him laugh, was what he seeked. And the “accident” had only been a mere coincidence that would have to be paid for. In money.

But he had other plans. It would be paid for with something else.

Walk towards the multilevel apartments.

Take elevator to floor 3.

Walk into the dark hallway to room 34A.

Knock.

He reached into his deep pocket and readied himself.

Knock again.

That “man” opened the door.

I said nothing but gave him what I had been waiting to for so long.

I gave him the picture. The picture of us together on our honeymoon now ten years ago. The picture where her hair halfway disguised her face. The picture where we hugged in front of the run down motel where we stayed for an eternity. My personal earthly heaven: anywhere I could look at her. Anywhere I could find myself rationally from her ready mind.

We asked that homeless man to take it. And she was afraid he would steal it. This picture always made us laugh from remembrance. Our flimsiness, our foolishness about life, our happy naivety.

Now I have no one to laugh with. The grins are marked over with a grimace. I could no longer look to her for that mirthful, airy laugh I missed so much. No more could I smile.

I handed it to him, and ran quickly to escape his gaze.

A Letter from Al Qaadar

“If I told you never to forget my face right now, would you? If I told you never to forget this day, the little details, like the way you clinged to me whenever the whitewash blown by the sea breeze would wash the mist about our eyes, would you? If
I told you to remember our love, would you?”

It was an easy enough question. It wasn’t hard for her to answer. She would always remember the way the waves vibed against the pier’s beams; how they synced to her heartbeats as he held her hand. She would always remember reality; for right now, everything was real. In focus. Outlined. Positive. She loved him. He loved her. And he was leaving to die.

He was leaving for Al Qaadar, one of the most violent and dangerous war-zones. Only 95% of Americans live through Al Qaadar, the other wives told her. 95% was pretty good though, right? “Not when your husband is one of the 5%.” This fact shadowed her every thought.

Today was perfect, though. Beautiful ocean. Beautiful sun. Beautiful eyes boring into hers. She could forget for now. For today. And let reality cover her in warm folds like a bed’s sheets in December. Like her husband’s embrace.

But now she sat again on the dock. Alone. With the dirty white envelope in her hands. Right now, forever, she would remember this singular moment. She was alone. But in this moment, she was singular. Singular in the fact that he and she were made one and would always remain that way. Even in death. The wind gusted around her. It lashed her hair around her face, whipping the tears that streamed. She opened the note gently, softly. He had touched this note not a few days earlier.

“Bear with me, my dearest. I see the dustiness around me and think of our days on the pier. I see the blood-red sunset, and think of the blooming orange ones at home. I see the haunted faces of those who have lost so much, and I remember yours. I remember it clearly. Perfectly. The days passed by so quickly when I was with you. But now I relive each of them in earnest, remembering every angle of my day. Every angle in which I saw you. Every angle in which I plumbed the depth of your untouched mind. I wish to see you with my whole heart. And I know I will.

I now read and understand. ‘Love never fails.’”