The Shorts

The sun shines warmly through the window today. The birds gently sing, as the wind carefully breezes through the room, airing out the dreadfulness of a lonely night. I get up and wander aimlessly through the apartment that was once ours and now is only mine, waiting for the clock to strike seven so I can finally leave to meet you. The arrows take their time to make their way around the clock, but, eventually, they make it to their destination, and I, out the door. I meet some of my neighbors as I leave and force myself to be polite and charming despite their looks of pity which corrode my soul. You left and they know it, and they pity the one that stayed behind.

The streets are relatively empty this early Sunday morning. I walk slowly, hearing my footsteps mark their presence down the quiet street with a slow even stride. From time to time, a car dashes by and wakes me from my transient thoughts, but soon, just as quickly as I was awoken, I fall back to thinking of you. How you used to skip through these roads and turn towards me, teasing me for being too slow. How a radiant smile graced your lips and your eyes sparkled with joy each time. Simple walks were so gracious, so precious, and now, I can only relive them through memory.

The train ride is easy enough to get through. Halfway through, I fall asleep, like I usually do on long trips like this one. I could feel you mocking me when I woke up even though the seat next to me wasn’t by you occupied but by an old lady feigning to read a magazine all the while being overly conscious of my every move. You would have laughed at the scene, had you been there.

Your mother comes to pick me up at the station. We exchange pleasantries the whole ride to the house. She looks well, apparently so do I. I like your mother. She, out of this whole affair, is the only one that treats me with an ounce of normalcy. Not a trace of pity or rage in her eyes, which at times I feel would be well deserved. She too must miss you terribly.

Inside your parent’s house, there are so many remnants of you. It’s where you feel more alive in the world. It’s a place I love and loathe. A place where I expect to see you walking out of the kitchen, holding a tray of assorted snacks you’d made the effort to assemble despite hating that sort of activity, grinning like a pleased child about to surprise their parents. A place where I expect to see you arguing with your old man about the smallest things while your mother laughs wholeheartedly at the whole affair. A place where I expect to see you bite your smile, only to then later laugh so artlessly at your father’s stupid jokes. A place where I expect to see so much of you, only to then have to forcibly remind myself that that can’t happen anymore. Neither can the delectable kisses you’d softly place on my forehead when you were pleased. Nor the way you twirled energetically to show me your dresses. Not even to see a glimpse of you. None of that can happen anymore despite this house still being stagnated in a period when it could.

Your father still barely talks despite it being already two years since you passed. He keeps himself recluse, especially when I come over, so I haven’t been able to see him at all. Your mother only tells me he’s gotten thinner and quieter. He must still grieve you terribly. For his princess to be suddenly gone like this must cause a terrible ache in such a protective parent’s heart. I wonder what goes on in that poor man’s mind. Is it guilt, rage, or just plain sadness that keeps him from living life beyond his room?

I go with your mother to see your grave. Your father refuses to even answer the question when we ask if he would like to join us like it was asinine to ask. Your mother arranges the flowers to put on your grave, a pretty bouquet filled with flowers you’d have not given a second glance to, and wishes you a happy birthday. She talks for a while, some banalities of their day-to-day life, and, when she’s done, she tells you she misses you with a gentle smile masking her sad eyes. After this, she turns to me and urges me to step forward. We are in silence for a while, while I stare at the grave that has your name inscribed upon it, then I finally decide to ask your mother for some privacy, urging her to even go home, telling her that I would find my way there on my own. She accepts, squeezing my arm as she leaves.

I squat down and pat the inscription that reveals your name. After of few moments of distractedly doing so, I get up and walk away from the cemetery towards some fields nearby and lay under the shade of an old solitary tree to watch the clouds pass by, one after the other, until you appear, dancing on top of that white mist. It has been a while since I’ve last seen you, but, still, you look exactly the same, exactly like the day you left, with the exact same light blue sundress and the exact same hairstyle. You dance atop the clouds, so far away, but I see you clearly as if you were right next to me. You dance beautifully, more so than when we danced together, more so than when you raved alone. You seem happy and I can’t help but smile. You twirl and swing your arms to a song nobody else but you listen, and grace me, your audience, with another show to remember, another show nobody else gets to witness, another gift from my departed wife.

However, darling, this will be the last time that I come to see you dance, though it makes me happy, though it makes me sad, though it makes me feel a myriad of things with such intensity for a moment. It’s a beautiful dance, my love, but I can’t watch it anymore for fear that I might end up stuck like your father. I’m nearly back to my old self again, my treasure. I’ll miss you forever, be sure of it, but somehow, the pain has started to feel less suffocating. Except after I see you dance. You dance so freely, so beautifully, so happily, and it makes me miss you so terribly. Looking at this open sky and feeling the soft winds brush my face, I can only wish to be as free as you are. You dance on the clouds as they pass by, leaving me behind, wishing I’d gone with you. But the fates have chosen only you to take with them, regardless of how bitter it left me.

Watching you, for this last time, I’ve come to consider one thing, my darling. If one of us really did have to stay behind, the fates chose well letting it be me, because you, my love, dance so beautifully when you’re free.