The Wanderer
I wake up, the last notes of a faint melody still ringing in my ears. Soft light fills the room with a warm afternoon glow, drawing shadows on the walls. My eyes wander, from the half-drawn curtains on the window, to the bed where a shirt and some pants have been lazily set down. Heavy arms push me upward as I stand up, leaving the comfort of the chair I fell asleep on. Glancing outside, I gently press my head on the window. The cold glass stings my forehead and my nose, and finishes to wake me up. Looking down on my hand, I notice the wedding alliance on my finger shining under the sun.
As I make my way towards the door, a small framed picture catches my eye. It is turned, facing the wall. I take it. My wife is wearing a blue halter dress, her hair cascading like a golden river on her back. She is holding me by the arm, smiling and waving at someone out of the picture. My attention, however, is solely taken by her presence. I can’t recall the moment behind the picture, but looking at it gives me a certain warmth. I look down at my clothes; I am wearing the same dress shirt and pants, my bowtie hanging undone around my neck. I smile at the realization, which somehow comforts me.
I walk down the stairs, each step echoing in the house. My legs take me to the living room, a wide open space with two tall arched windows covering a whole wall. The others are filled with paintings and portraits, most of them hidden under white drapes, and, in the middle of the room, a grand piano sits. The lid is closed, but the fall board is open. My fingers brush against the keys left uncovered, raising dust, but I don’t dare play a note, instead humming to myself the melody of my dreams. I cannot seem to remember the name, but I know my wife plays it some evenings.
Leaving the piano to the silence of the room, I wander in the empty house. In the kitchen, an empty plate rests on the marble counter. I notice the faucet is not properly closed. For a second, I think about taking care of it, but decide against it, instead feeling the faint echo of a droplet bouncing both on the stainless steel of the sink and between my ears. The air is cool, despite the sun filling the place. Finally, my steps take me to the warm, bathing in light solarium, where a soft figure lies on the porch swing, asleep under one of my jackets. A golden river of hair falls on each side of a soft face. I kneel before her, my hand resting on the cushion. She seems peaceful, but her cheeks are wet, and her hands are curled into a fist. My fingers brush against her face, and she shivers at the touch. This sight gives me a little heartache. I recall the picture in the bedroom, and realize I haven’t seen her smile that way in a while. She mutters in her sleep a few words I can’t quite catch, but I hear my name escape her lips.
Her voice is soft and clear, and I start to wander in my mind. The smell of her perfume, the feel of her dress, the sound of her bracelets clinking against each other. The picture becomes more vivid in my mind, and I remember the moment. We were walking, we were talking, and then… Without realizing it, I run my hand over my shirt, stopping on a tear. Yes, and then… I can feel something warm and tacky under the fabric. I remember someone else, a gun, a scream, and her saying my name.
It takes me a few seconds to feel the tear rolling on my cheek. I smile; it always takes me some time to remember. I lean close to her ear, and whisper softly: “Please do not cry for me. I’ll never leave you again, I promise. I love you so much.” Slowly standing up, I look one last time through the window. The sun is warm and gentle. I smile. It’s funny, for a second, I forgot I was dead. Sometimes, you’re so close to something, you can’t see the whole picture.
