As the anniversary nears, you think of her. New scents on morning breezes and the slants of afternoon shadows are harbingers of reminiscence. You start to see her everywhere - stepping into the elevator just as the doors close. A face on the train glimpsed between bodies, a reflection in a storefront window. Reflections, that’s all you have left of her. It’s been nearly a decade. The face you imagine you’re finding is unaged and perfect. Not your last true look, the etched memory of her grief filled effigy. The anniversary of loss, of breaking apart. You were each so absorbed by your own emotions you were unable to reach out to the other, unable to comfort or be comforted. And the chasm grew, until you were looking at each other from entirely different places. The common ground you once shared eroded by tears.
You are on your way to the cemetery. A small toy doggie and a potted daisy sit on the passenger seat. A balloon bobs behind your head. Sara will be forever a baby in your mind. All of the visions you had of walking, running, learning to bicycle, boys, cars, graduation, college, walking her down the aisle. All stopped. Sara will be, forever a baby in your mind. Sara will be forever an absence; a hole around which you will never be whole. And you think of her mother. The quiet, intelligent, quick witted, sprite who captured your heart and soul. It was too much to carry on. It was too much to stay in touch. You let each other stumble into unplanned futures.
Idling at a stoplight, you glance over as a jellybean car pulls up on your right. There’s an attractive woman, bobbed hair curling just under her ear which sports sparkly dangles. You watch her drumming the steering wheel while she sings words to music you cannot hear. Then she turns and is looking straight at you. It's her. It is Lisa of the bluest eyes. Your once love. She looks straight at you, but there is no recognition.
The light changes. She turns right. You go straight. Her face looked older, but the lines were laugh lines. Her dimples were accentuated. There were slight crinkles at the corners of her eyes, because her smiles always went clear to her eyes. She’s been happy.
— Lkai
You are on your way to the cemetery. A small toy doggie and a potted daisy sit on the passenger seat. A balloon bobs behind your head. Sara will be forever a baby in your mind. All of the visions you had of walking, running, learning to bicycle, boys, cars, graduation, college, walking her down the aisle. All stopped. Sara will be, forever a baby in your mind. Sara will be forever an absence; a hole around which you will never be whole. And you think of her mother. The quiet, intelligent, quick witted, sprite who captured your heart and soul. It was too much to carry on. It was too much to stay in touch. You let each other stumble into unplanned futures.
Idling at a stoplight, you glance over as a jellybean car pulls up on your right. There’s an attractive woman, bobbed hair curling just under her ear which sports sparkly dangles. You watch her drumming the steering wheel while she sings words to music you cannot hear. Then she turns and is looking straight at you. It's her. It is Lisa of the bluest eyes. Your once love. She looks straight at you, but there is no recognition.
The light changes. She turns right. You go straight. Her face looked older, but the lines were laugh lines. Her dimples were accentuated. There were slight crinkles at the corners of her eyes, because her smiles always went clear to her eyes. She’s been happy.
— Lkai
Should be Chance Encounter
ReplyDeleteSo glad you are here Lkai! Look forward to more reading. Like the above piece very much. So evocative of the places and spaces our ex's live in.
ReplyDeleteThe above comment is mine not anonymous.
ReplyDeleteI particularly like the line about stumbling into unplanned futures. This piece really captures the pain of losing a child and a spouse. It is sad but the ending bittersweet.
ReplyDeleteThis is beautifully done, but I had to re-read to understand what was happening. A baby died, some years ago, but the anniversary is near--of when the breakup was between the mother of the child and her partner? The emotions go from imagining seeing the mother/partner here and there, to the baby that died, and then back to the mother/partner? The woman whose point of view we are absorbing is still very affected by it all, and yet when she sees that person in another car, that person seems NOT affected, even though it's close to the anniversary, and does not recognize her former partner. She has different memories, perhaps, recognizes different anniversaries. Very sad. The use of second person substituting for first person is very effective. I'm feeling sorrow for the narrator. --- Macoff
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