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.

Stained Soul: A Sequel to Stained Fabric

But it wasn’t so. She couldn’t come. She wouldn’t come if She were able to. She had escaped into life. Why would she come back to him who wallows in deadness? His loves were sinful and shallow, hers were pure and right. He was dirty. She was made perfect.

He strained the unhappiness out of his head and replaced it with the happiness she used to grant him with, though the wounds still bled deep inside of him. “Please, just let me die! I don’t want these people near, I don’t want friendship or love, or hate and bitterness. I just want numbness and the end of gravity.”

The unreal hollow voice above commanded boarding, but He didn’t want to anymore. He didn’t want anymore machines. Anymore unreal voices. All he wanted was to see her one more time and clarify the life that was a slave to hers. The voice kept calling, kept jeering. "SHE IS GONE! FORGET OR REMEMBER!"

Yes, it was her body in that plane, it was her wrinkled face, those were her perfumed clothes. They were all going to her subterranean home. But it wasn’t her. It wasn’t the lithe form that he held in his arms every night for 40 years. It wasn’t that face that smiled upon him sarcastically when he knew he made her laugh on the inside. It wasn’t the perfume of their love on a frosty fall day in the park. She had vanished.

He didn't want to remember her. He wanted to kiss her. He didn't want to forget her, he wanted to explore the world with her. He didn't want to leave her. He wanted to share her warmth in the chilliness of earth.

He swiftly rolled himself out, past security to the bus, still in the airport’s wheelchair. He rode to that park where they had spent their infrequent Sunday afternoons. Where they shared their loves and cares. Where they explained their failings.

He hobbled with his retractable cane to the rusty bench.

He sat down.

He looked at the infinitesimal letters that were their names carved into the winding wooden armrest.

He lay down and wept for an eternity.