And Then You Died
A Novella
Dear Marian,
As always, I send you my love. I want to tell you a story. It wouldn't have been possible if not for you.
I went to the Great Falls Park today (I thought of you when I drove by those grand old mansions you always loved) and strolled down by the Potomac. It was in its usual state, and the foam was beautifully rabid. Had the trees their leaves, I still could have heard the water raging, as quick as lost souls rolling their way toward heaven. A group of schoolchildren (with no matching t-shirts, thank goodness) was wandering back to one of those fancy Coach buses. I dared not cross the bridge with this wave of adolescents aimed in the opposite direction as I, so I sought to rest on the bench we always sat upon, looking out onto the river.
Memories always flock to me when I return to our places, but today I was no shepherd. Lately all my thoughts have been of you, and I have found trouble discerning realities from recollections.
Thus, when I saw a young woman seated on the bench, something I would think rare in this season, my mind tried to tell me she was you. My docile heart believed this for a single instant, perhaps to be happy again. Yet, after a single step, my heart fell. I saw the woman had black hair. She was not whom I had grown up beside. Still, I found myself hobbling toward our place with the cane you gave me leading my careful steps and asked her if she would mind sharing her seat. She glanced at me, brushing hair away from bloodshot, swollen eyes, and nodded. By the time I realized why this stranger so impacted me, even after such disappointment, she had looked away.
First she had reminded me of you, but now she reminded me of myself. She showed the tolls of grief which are no longer evident in my physiognomy, but in my bones. The simple air around her felt hopeless like marrow which has already been sucked out of life, and of life.
Once I had seated myself, cane positioned safely against the bench, I took care to stare straight ahead. I asked her softly if she would mind sharing her troubles. It was a selfish thing to ask, for I think I meant to distract myself. But as she began to speak ▬ quite voluntarily, I might add ▬ I knew someone living in the clouds had willed it.
Some stories need to be told. I found this out for the hundredth time when I met the girl with the sinking posture, seemingly permanent frown lines, and horrors in her mind and soul. This was Jane.
She, too, looked ahead ▬ down, really, at the dirt and soil, with her hands folded to imitate prayer. I sat back to give her space, but could hear very well because her words fell through the cool air, putting a light moratorium on the surrounding life of the sand, weeds, and trees, but not the river. It went about its own business as Jane spoke.
This is what she said.
