Lives Etched in Marble

For so long, there’d been darkness, stillness, as if time had forgotten it marched forward. Perfect silence, a haunting quiet of lost sounds.

The edges of my vision blurred a hazy brightening gray as if waking from a dream to the lights on but not quite wanting to open my eyes. It almost hurt. Part of me longed for the darkness. It had become a comfort, safe in its unchanging and unrelenting.

Colors came next, nearly as blinding as the light itself. I had forgotten the lush green of well-maintained grass, the shock of yellow in the distance from stubborn dandelions, the rich browns of tree bark. How blue the sky could be on a midsummer’s day.

The sprawling lawn was dotted with stones of gray, black, and terracotta. Bunches of flowers periodically broke up the repetition with pops of pinks, purples, and reds.

I realized I could smell them, the sweet softness of rose most strong. Suddenly, fragrance overwhelmed my nose. Fresh dirt, cut grass, the lingering scent of rain in the air. I could nearly taste it. A slight but pungent musk lurked beneath everything.

Then, the birds. Their songs reached my ears as they flittered in the wind, landing and lifting from tree branches only to settle again on an iron wrought fence. Wind chimes rang from somewhere though I could not see them. The rustle of life, of the earth itself breathing, underscored the broken melody of nature.

I watched as two squirrels played, one chasing the other up a tree and back down again. They bounded over the lawn, dodging and sometimes climbing the stones in their path. Tumbling in a pile of busy brown tails until they left my view.

There was a man, in the distance, by where I’d lost the squirrels. He knelt in front of a black stone, a bunch of sunflowers clutched in his hands, resting in his lap. His lips moved, but his words were lost to the wind. I wanted to get closer, to pry just a bit into his life. I could not move from my place.

His head slumped forward, his shoulders slightly shaking. His grief made me feel guilty though I wasn’t sure why. The intimacy, I told myself. I witnessed his private moment, wanted to dissect it like a frog pinned to a tray for my own curiosity. Shame burned at the edge of my consciousness, but I ignored it, focusing instead on the young woman standing in front of him, standing behind the black stone.

The sun shone on her then, nearly shone through her golden hair. She wore a thick sweater and a long skirt. Her outfit seemed off season compared to the simple t-shirt and shorts the man wore at her feet. Her hand extended toward him, hoping to provide comfort, yet it didn’t reach. He seemed completely unaware of her presence.

A voice reached my ears, bringing my attention away from the moment in the distance. It was a young woman’s voice. I turned around and she was suddenly right in front of me. Her dark hair was pulled back into a braid draped over her shoulder, ending just below her breasts. She wore a short sleeve dress that ended above her knees with no stockings. A stack of letters rested in her hands. One of them was unfolded as she read aloud. The words felt...familiar somehow.

“Sarabeth turned seven last week. I made that strawberry cake you both love so much. How I do wish for you to be at her next party. She keeps asking for you, Michael. I remind her that you are off keeping us safe, but it is getting harder and harder to believe it.

“Mama tells me this is the burden of women, that we must ensure the world at home keeps turning while our men are off on the battlefield. I know she’s right and that wars must have good reason, or else we wouldn’t have soldiers. I miss you tremendously, though.

“Please write soon, dear Michael. My heart needs your words until your arms can hold me once again.

“All my love, Catherine.”

The paper crinkled as she delicately refolded it along the creases, slipping it back into its airmail envelope. She slipped the letters into a small leather satchel hanging from her shoulder.

“I found these tucked into a nightstand I bought from Bertie’s Antiquities I was restoring. It took a while to find you, Catherine Marie Sinclair.”

Warmth spread through me at the sound of my name. Soothing like a cup of tea and a good book on a lazy Sunday. I smiled at the woman. She looked through me before looking down.

I followed her gaze, landing on a white marble stone protruding from the ground near my feet. The world blurred again as my mind struggled to grip reality.

“Michael returned to you safely after the war was won. You lived for another forty years together. Sarabeth died a few years later. She lived a quiet life as a schoolteacher and never had children of her own.”

A gravestone, my gravestone. I felt a presence to my left; a familiar hand gently clasped my own. Our gravestone.

My dearest, Michael. The edges of his silhouette were hazy, and I realized I could see through my own form. We were both a bit transparent. Like the other woman who stood in front of the grieving man across the cemetery.

“The historical society in town is holding a World War II exhibit. I’ve submitted your letters as artifacts. I’m not sure why, but it felt necessary to read them to you one last time before they go on display.”

She bowed her head slightly before she turned and left.

“Caty cat,” Michael’s voice filled my head. Its gruffness comforting like a blanket on a winter’s night.

Pure love shown on his face as I turned to look at him. I smiled in return.

The mystery woman was completely unaware of the gift she’d given us. She’d pulled us from the lonely darkness of being forgotten. Though smaller than before, and a bit hazy, she returned us to a world of love and color. A world free of isolation and despondence.

I hadn’t realized how I longed to be remembered, how I yearned to know my life had mattered. I would forever be grateful to the young woman who returned me to my Michael for however long we had. For however long we’d be remembered.