A Living End

I have been trying to make sense of it. My brain, a constant loop of regret and longing. There is no suitable explanation. Randomness exists within order. The car wreck. That surprising discovery of infidelity. A terminal illness. The lay-off that you didn’t see coming. The body learns to wait for calamity, a protective forward motion. In that idling between disasters, a comfort is sought. It manifests in the light cadence of a sparrow or a mockingbird. The ear picks it up against all the crashing white noise. Its clipped melody heralds more than safety. It invites you in. A reassurance. You understand before you hear it.

The soul searches for that ancient cue. A harbinger of well-being. A balance between angels and demons. More sustaining than the proffered mythologies. Like fire and water, it creates wholeness. A natural force. Guidance. A way home.

I search for the voice that has been quieted.

The window above my kitchen sink is open, staring at the carefully hung bird feeder. Empty. Devoid of movement. I close my eyes, as my hand traces a circle with the dish rag around the dirty plate. A washing away of the memory of sustenance.

He did not realize how much his touch was needed. Without that external validation, I am not certain where I end and the world starts. An amorphous existence. Feeling like I am about to explode into an infinite smallness. There are no boundaries.

He went hiking that morning.

The water from the sink’s faucet runs across my fingers. Scalding. Steady. A different type of reminder of the outline of form. I place the plate in the drying rack gently.

Sarah told me the other day that I needed to move on, or was it Mike? Move on. A phrase that holds the weight of living. Two words.

I grab the coffee cup and swirl the soapy water along its edge. It splashes out. The suds slide down the ceramic sink. A co-mingling with the water until there is nothing left. The cup resting upside down next to the plate. There is a repetition of thoughts. It bombards with hostility and lingers in the recesses. Morphs into a melancholy. Relentless in its pursuit of claiming any peace. My peace.

Two words. Just two words.

Not now. Love you. Next time. I’m sorry. Maybe tomorrow. Damn it. Help me. Why him? Good night. Remember me.

Truncated sounds that form meaning. A life summed up in simple utterances. I struggle with the recollection of the last conversation. Was I even paying attention? Did I hear his voice? I don’t want to lose the sound of it. A masculine calm. I cannot recall what he said or if I replied. The fear is penetrating, knowing that I missed something important.

He would have told me the trailhead he was hiking.

Anger builds. Resentment toward things controlled. And uncontrolled. Faced with moments of half-living. Trudging through the minutes and hours with haste, thinking there is a purpose to be found later. Later never comes. It is supplanted by the present misery.

Imploring the universe for a way back. Not years. Not decades. Rewind to that one-sided exchange. Really listen. Offer to go. Reiterate that the sacrifices were noticed, the actions appreciated, yes, the love, I took it for granted. Apologize for the inadequacies. The short-sightedness. I want to hold him once more. To be held. In the absence of touch, the mind overcompensates with wild abandon.

So I stumble through it fast, my heart yielding up the sentiments that I was saving for a special occasion. Fancy dinner. Half-empty wine glass. Alone together. Moments dressed up in an anti-climactic sham.

I would force out the truth. To tell him, "The only thing we have is now.”

***

At breakfast this morning, Toby sat across from me. A walled-up energy of adolescent confusion. A side-eyed glance from a thirteen-year-old who lacks experience in translating what is missing. The words, buried. His fork scraped along the plate. A caustic sound to fill the void. I focused on the scrambled eggs scattered into separate clumps.

“What are you doing in school today?” The words forced into a question.

He shrugged his shoulders. No offering. No sound.

“Well, there must be something…” I looked down. The silence, loud in its resonance of the heartbreak.

“How are your grades? Have you been doing your homework? I haven’t seen any progress reports.”

“They’re fine. Everything’s fine.” He belted out the sentence with sarcasm. A pain, rooted and raw.

“I know it’s not fine. Your dad - ”

“Yes, it is Mom,” his voice swelled with agitation. Cut a fissure. Masked the emptiness.

He stared a hole in his plate full of food.

Toby’s curly blonde hair, reminiscent of his dad. A willfulness. A likeness, the same stature. I reached my hand toward him. He leaned in the opposite direction.

The repetition kicked in. Get up. Must eat. Continue living. The steady mantra, as the minute hand circled the wheel of time.

I searched for words to ease the suffering.

“We have to find a reason to keep going. It’s okay to be sad.”

Words that hung in the air. Unceremonious. A flatness to the truth.

The hole in his plate got bigger.

The worn brakes on the old school bus screeched a mournful arrival. A recognition. A dutiful interruption, affording escape out of his entrapment. He flung the fork on the napkin, grabbed his backpack at his too large feet and hurried toward the side door of the house.

“Come give your mom a kiss,” I threw it into space. A desperate pleading.

He turned sharply and sulked in my direction. A resignation. I could feel the warm softness of his lips against my cheek. For a moment, the shape of living returned. And then he was gone.

***

A female grosbeak flutters a clumsy landing on the perch of the feeder. She nips at the sunflower seeds. A voracious poking. With intentness, I watch her wrestle with the hard covering. She manages through reflex until the meat of the seed is exposed. A nourishment.

She stops and eyes the window screen curiously. A gaze held in seconds. Connection. My chest moves up and down, holding my breath. It is the most interaction to be expected. That feeling rises in my throat, forcing a deliberate exhale. A finch lands on the opposite perch. A slight swaying ensues. The grosbeak chirps disdainfully at the intruder and disappears behind the leaves of the oak. The wind catches its branches in a playful tug. A towering monolith.

Visions of the forest swallowing him up. A canopy of intermingled branches, stretching for miles. I wonder what caught his attention. Lured him off the worn path. The search and rescue, spanning four days. Dogs tracking. His scent vanishing at the creek bed. A struggle to understand. He was cautious. Methodical. Diligent. The unthinkable surfaces. Did he do it purposefully?

I nudge the handle of the faucet upward, increasing the intensity of the water flow. It pours and gushes down the back of my hands and wrists, wetting the edges of my shirt sleeves. I wash them with rigor. The antique clock chimes the next hour and I stare at the redness of my palms. This day will stack itself neatly to the last one and leave room for the hours to follow. It will persist.

A gnawing, scratching ache for answers.

Sitting back down at the dining room table, I look at his empty chair. The placemat and dinner setting, pristine. Untouched. The utensils lined up in parallel unison.

Toby left the television running. Snippets filter into the room. The newscaster, talking. A high-pitched inflection. Interrupting. Laughing.

“The state dinner was choreographed marvelously by the First Lady. Not a detail unattended. Well, except for one item, remarked on by guests – the forks were placed too close to the plates.”

Too close. The words hum. A noise growing louder. I yank Jim’s placemat with a quick, deft movement. The plate and silverware jump, rattling to a new resting spot. The fork lying on top of the spoon. I clutch the left side of my chest. A pulsing hurt. A surge of sadness. Where is he? Where did he go?

An unintentional rearrangement.

Everything in the room moves. Shifts. Like a silent earthquake. There is nothing to grab onto for stability, to steady my nerves. The anxiety medicine, the careful doctor prescribed, numbed all sensation. I tossed it in the garbage after two failed weeks. Surmising it was better to feel something over the endless days of nothingness. A stacking of hurt.

And I bear the weight of this exacting solitude with a mere forty-four dollars in my bank account. It has to last until Friday. Pay day. A meager amount to stretch into multiple meals, gasoline, toilet paper and other essentials. The panic is a coursing river.

I didn’t know that a fork could be too close to a plate.

***

Glancing into the living room, I see the makeshift bed. A crumpled blanket and a lifeless pillow. The cushions of the couch worn down by the weight of sleep. It is where I find slumber, not rest.

Plodding footfalls up the stairs, one at a time. Tilting my glance toward the photos that climb the wall. Memories encapsulated. A series of events interrupted. Waiting for the creak from the fourth stair, my weight the catalyst. Comfort found in the slightest predictability.

My hand rests on the doorknob, an entry to the bedroom. A soft turn and the door opens to a stationary vigil. The bed, made with precision. The heavy curtains drawn, blocking out sunlight. With both hands, I pick up his pullover draped like dead weight on the arm of the sitting chair. The scent rushes at me. Faint and fading. Sometimes, I think it’s the memory of smell. Short intakes of breath. Afraid I will use up his proof of existence.

On the comforter, items from his hiking trip are lined up. The ones they found. Bird-watching binoculars. Car keys. Driver’s license. Ball cap. That’s it. No backpack. No note. No body. The room suffocates in its sparsity, and I flee. A slamming of the bedroom door.

Energy propels movement, a hurriedness. The creaking sound. A dash to the back. A violent creaking of the screen door. I am met by the chirping of the songbirds. The sky empties into a muted blue. Morning dew licks my toes. Careful footsteps through the grass that needs cutting. The bees flirt with flowers, a back and forth game. I take inventory of our fledgling garden. Newly planted tomatoes and green beans. A ringing of my hands to ward off a late April frost. I need something to survive.

The bluebirds skirt the air with newfound meals, worms dangling from their beaks. The cries of baby birds anticipating the bounty. Short flights. Instinct-driven.

I remember cooking a roast. The smell of rosemary and thyme, the herbs filling the room. The house, fragrant with familiarity. A custard in the fridge. His favorite dessert. Yes, a normal evening.

I yelled up the stairs for Toby to turn down his music. A monstrous assault of bass and unintelligible words. The grating rhythm, interfering with my tranquility. Preposterous, no, presumptuous to think that I had influence over the day’s repose. My cell phone rang. Shrill. Harsh. Irrevocable.

My finger tapped the green circle on my phone. A low voice, doling out words that didn’t line up. His vacant car angled under a resting tree in the parking lot. The state park closed. A crashing sound that held no noise. A lowering of the blinds to shut out the darkness. He never came home.

My head shakes. Slow. More pronounced. The wetness mars my cheek where Toby begrudgingly kissed me. My jaw, tight. Clenched fists.

The sky goes silent. An eerie quiet. The birds, alert to danger. Something unknown. They move upward, toward the heavens. Their wings thrashing against space. I tense in the knowledge that it will never be the same. There’s no going back now. I am left to make the pieces fit.

From nowhere, I hear a scream aimed at everything. My voice carries in a dry squeal. Chokes out the sound. A sob. I don’t recognize it as my own.

The grosbeak watches from a sturdy limb. A chirp, barely detectable. A watchful presence. Protection. A breath escapes from my lips, an almost whisper.

“No, please, no.”

Nothing.

The cycle endures. A living end. Everything preceding this minute, the last second that ticked off, is now out of reach. Slipped away into the continuum. Gone.

Imprisoned by this fate. Untenable circumstances. I contemplate what I will cook for dinner.