Rain fell softly against the deck's plastic roof, echoing vaguely through my head. The blades of grass, damp with rain, blending together into a dark green haze speckled with the remnants of fall. The agonizing scream echoed off the trees, penetrating the leaves as my brain registered the origin as my own trembling vocal chords. Then it stopped and the silence of the day returned with the pattering of rain, while the scream secured itself in my soul, anchoring its conscious existence to my heart.
Then it registered, my capri pajama pants, the eggplant tank top from my last pregnancy, oversized WWU sweatshirt and my glasses. Teeth and hair unbrushed. And no bra. Why didn't I put a bra on?
My bra, my contacts, a hair brush and clothes . I need them to cover my naked vulnerability. When your heart is ripped from your chest, that's what's left. Naked, vulnerable and an unidentifiable emotion filling my chest so completely that it makes me feel empty.
I look at those around me but all I can see is him, collapsed in the shower, the signs of death which made my heart race. I feel the hair on his chest as my trembling hands compress his heart, begging the blood to flow through his veins while my raspy voice counts loud enough to be heard by the calm, female voice on the other end of the line, my phone perched on the corner of the bathtub. The bathroom steam escapes into the rest of the house, death slipping down the stairs, a dense fog pervasive in every inch, overcoming everyone bound by its walls. My prayers alternate between begging Chris to stay and pleading with God to keep my children innocent of the visual that is permeating my skin, affixing itself to the dark corners of my soul.
And then I'm back. Explaining it all to myself. Rationalizing the events as though there was no other way for them to transpire. The ragged breath escaping my burning lungs as I suddenly realize I've been holding onto it for much to long in the exhausted grasp of my soul. I laugh too, at the realization that I'm unsure about what to do with all of this except slip it back into the bifold files from whence I drew it.
Four years and the question that orbits in my psyche is what have I learned.
The self-deprecating, pitiful part of my soul says nothing. Four years in and my heart is etched with mistrust and pain so deeply that the sinews of my old life hardly hold it together. Perhaps insurance would call it a complete loss and I wonder if I carry enough coverage to replace the damaged pieces. If only it were a flat needing repair. Perhaps that would make this ride smooth...a simple repair to the external vessel. However, in reality, the vessel is the least of my concerns.
Each day I expect my psyche to stop searching for him . Instead my pulse races when a man, two machines over at the gym, looks up and I see an uncanny resemblance to Chris. Sure that I am alarming him, I try to focus on my workout only to realize I'm staring again. But what would I say? You look like my dead husband seems a smidge creepy. I drive across town and see a truck identical to the one Chris owned when we first met and I almost miss my turn as my inner voice encourages me to follow, just in case. In my house I grasp for the energy he left behind but my hands come up empty. In the life we once shared exists very little of him. The life itself evolved out of necessity and even the position he once took pride in has been consumed by the void of what's left.
Starting from scratch. Closing the book or turning the page. Figuring out how much weight a soul can take.
I'd like to say, then a smile creeps onto my lips and I trust. In fact, I typed that first but realized the lie that resonated in my words. I will say there is a vast dichotomy in reality and expectation. Despite this, life truly is a landscape smitten with steep mountains and palatial valleys. Though I wish I could reverse the events of November 17, 2010, the blessing of being on this vast Earth and allowed to savor this life through my breathtaking children doesn't escape my soul. Through them I hold on to everything that is authentic.
