Empty Nest

CW: Grief, death

The billowing sky darkened with the onset of rain, the day on the cusp of dusk. I stood on my front lawn, ankle-deep in soft snow, enveloped by a wool cardigan, pulled in close to my heart. The cream fabric, strands dancing in the brisk wind, stark against my brown skin. Goosebumps prickled along the frail bone of my wrist, which peeked out from the edge of my sleeve. My body sensed that something was amiss.

It would be a frightening storm. This is what the news anchor had warned just moments

ago. His pudgy face was cast in the yellowish glow of the spotlights, his suit too tight against his throat. He appeared nervous. Should we be?

The day began as average. I awoke just shy of six in the morning to the fragrant scent of my morning coffee. I pre-set the machine the evening before, as I had done for the past several months. It was nice to pretend I still had someone looking after me. Someone who ensured I was handed a freshly brewed coffee each morning to brighten my day a smidge more. I slipped from the cold sheets, not daring to look at the vacant side of the bed. With a yawn and a smack of the lips, I poured the joe into a gray mug, which I held close for warmth despite the ceramic scalding my hands. I enjoyed the sensation; it brought me to my senses, made the miserable reality all the more clear. This specific roast included notes of butterscotch, honey, and cranberry, ideal for this wintry season. I allowed the tar-like liquid glug down my throat.

Afterwards, I helped myself to some breakfast: buttered toast and scrambled eggs and a side of blistered cherry tomatoes, dressed with herbs. Then, I worked. I worked from home, for myself, a privilege that I regularly acknowledge. Settled in my quaint house, that once was ours, I click-clacked away on my laptop. Perched near a window, frosted with cold perspiration, I occasionally glanced at the garden outside, frozen now. Earlier this year, I remember it blossoming with vibrant life. Coneflowers and zinnias paired beautifully with the calla lily. I had labored away in that garden for many months. I harvested what I could, arranging elegant bouquets for loved ones, yet the rest perished.

While I worked, I was accompanied by flickering candlelight and the neighborhood cat, who sometimes visited. Especially now, as though he could sense that I was alone. His brown fur, immersive patterns drawn down the sides of his chest, glistened with snowflakes. He peered up at me with an understanding, a knowing.

I visited the local market in the afternoon for some ingredients for dinner. I was thinking of freshly caught salmon, joined with roasted green beans and dill. With the wicker basket clung to the crease of my elbow, I sensed the oncoming of a storm. The already cold air plummeted to a chill that rattled the bones. My breath, sheer white in the air, released all at once with a sudden gasp. I returned home shortly after, with a bottle of merlot I hadn’t planned on. The drive was silent and unnerving. I eased the car into the driveway and scurried inside. After pouring myself a generous glass of wine, I settled down with the news. There, my suspicions were correct. Stay inside, the uncomfortable weatherman warned. The storm was en route.

As I stand here now, cheeks burning, toes numb, I watch the clouds part. A gaping, black void widens at the top of the universe as the air churns. Sirens erupt, and the entire town is bustling with terror. I don’t live near anyone else, tucked deep in the trees. Still, I can hear the distant ricochets of panic.

I reflect on what Charles would have done in a situation like this, met with a storm to this degree. I cannot think of him often, or for too long. I’ll spiral otherwise. I try to pry his kind face from my mind yet it stays, stubborn. He’s reaching out to me, grazing my chin with his warm hand. The cold metal of his wedding band moves me to tears. He tells me to return inside, where it’s safe. He tells me to lock the doors, secure myself in the bathroom, and wait for the weather to pass. I try to tell him that the house hasn’t been safe since he left, but no words escape my parted lips.

In the early summer months of the year prior, Charles and I had tried hard to have a family. We figured it would be challenging; we were nearing our mid-forties, and our bodies grew gradually tired with age. Still, we remained hopeful. As the green leaves turned to delicate shades of yellow and orange, and the lavender trumpets that once strewn the branches drifted down to the grassy floor beneath, there was no baby. Not even a sliver of possibility. Weeks overflowed with doctor’s visits and costly procedures, yet to no avail. We returned to our home, empty-handed and exhausted. Strangely enough, Charles and I refused to speak to one another. Not intentionally, but it was as if the words were stale in the back of our throats. Lost in our own separate sorrows, we drifted. We had told ourselves we’d be satisfied with any outcome, yet as it turned out, this was not the case. My once-soft skin thinned, my collarbones jutting from my chest. We were growing old, and it hit us all at once that we would die in this house with no children to carry on our legacy, however simple.

We tried. Him especially. Little gestures of kindness reminded me that we were still married. It was love that brought us together, and with enough watering, we could flourish once more. We would curl up in the living room and watch the squirrels roam the garden, settled with cups of chamomile tea. We’d laugh, even, at the animals’ squirmish behavior, sporadic movements. However, as the brief joy was swallowed back up by the thickening silence, the pain expanded. The ache had claimed our roots, had turned them black and brittle.

The heart attack occurred in the beginning of January, when the world was still and the isolation all the more prominent. I remember hearing the staggered heave as Charles struggled against the pain coursing through his left arm. I remember his trembling hand clutched to his chest, fingers curled as though prying through his ribs. In a frightful spring to action, I rushed him to the emergency room, our sedan churning through the slush outside. Though it was too late. Moments after we arrived, once he was whisked back and I was left to pace the quiet hall, gnawing my fingers raw, I was given the news.

There’s only so much you can do to numb the presence of loneliness. There is only so much gardening, days spent lying in the blissful sun, trips to the bustling market, visits with neighbors, with family. No one quite understood what we had gone through. No one could imagine being in a situation like myself, and so they avoided it altogether by not asking the tough questions. It was easier, for all of them, to pretend like I was okay. That I can live on. This includes myself.

Outside, I’m pulled back by a sudden gust of wind. I swiftly reclaim my balance, but it’s the strangest thing; the icy air grips my forearms and tugs, harder, as though alive. The sky is darkening rapidly, though not quite the deep black of night. It’s more like a bubbling navy, the racing clouds obscuring the stars beneath. Barren trees are blown so ferociously I’m afraid they may be ripped right out of the soft earth. My mailbox topples over, landing against the snow-strewn pavement with a violent crash. I jump at the sound of it. The snow lifts from the ground, swirling around me like a cyclone. My wide eyes once again meet Charles, who is here with me, caught in this forming tunnel. Flakes land on his red nose, on the strands of his peppered, brown hair, and I’m amazed that he’s not real.

Charles apologizes. For withdrawing, for not being there when I needed him most. For letting his despair get the better of him and whisk him away from this world, and leaving me to battle the storm alone. He tells me that I’m strong, and that he is proud of me. That he watches me, every day, sending me the love he promised at the altar all of those years ago.

Please, go back inside, he pleads. But I don’t. I grasp onto my husband and pull my shivering body into his warmth, his comfort. Tentative hands find the crease of my lower back and settle there. I’m not letting him leave me again, and I think he understands this now.

The storm nears, intensifies. Somehow, I’m not thrown off my feet, but standing strong. I feel comforted by the fact that I’ve faced such a mighty fury before. I can do it again.

All at once, the sleet strikes the earth, and the wind carries me. Charles’ hands vanish, yet I still feel the places they once touched tenderly. The void appears directly above my head, and the world stills. It is silent aside from the cracking of ice, the whipping tendrils of air. I allow the storm to take me. I succumb to its wrath.