The Lonely Polar Bear

One polar bear set adrift. He wanders. He shivers. He lusts. He knows the end is near. He takes in as much as he is able. It isn't much.

Wobbly, without his bride, his vision blurs. The abyss gets closer and closer. But he cannot see it. Only feel the dread it brings. Its rim. Indecisive edges.

He searches for his home, but it eludes him. There are no famliar scents to guide him. No one to attend to. His days are filled with nothingness. No meaning. The sea entices him. He thinks he can see her reflection.One day he will fall in and go searching for her. Just not yet.

Red sky at night

All hands on deck. Rain in the forecast casts an end to the adventure. A curtain falls.  I am thrown back into my life without a lifeboat.  Without a vest. To the realization that my purpose was your desire. Am I without a purpose now? Will I turn back into a pumpkin?  You are now the past. My past. His past. Past. Gone. I circle the place where you died, on my way to meet my family. You were my family. You were the one. If I keep things as they were, I will perish too. But I know it is not my time. If pushed, you would have admitted that you would not want it so.

I take the sailor by the hand and we venture forth in the rain. It was supposed to be a delight.  Instead, it is a series of sharp stabs to the chest. But, that is only the first step. The recognition that I can breathe without you is a shock. It prompts exploration. I discover the honey and the bee have taken shelter within.

Heuristic

How can a thing of beauty perish before my eyes, leaving me nothing to look at but myself?  No one to serve, yet still insistent on serving. How can I turn the eye inward, the compliment to include me? For as long as she was here, it was easy. Avoidance implied. Preferred. The agenda was predefined. Easy to follow. Now, the absence of order stares me down. I thought if I walked for miles, at the end of the journey I might find it.  That key which was never within my reach.

I am a little girl. I walk down a long corridor. At the end of it, stands a tall iron container, rusted over. It has a door, which I open. I find myself  inside as I am now. The little girl takes the older woman by the hand and together, they walk down the corridor. They are fused. One protects the other. It is all new to them. All new to me.

I can no longer observe. No longer search for another master. There is not only one key. I know now that there are many. But not all the doors need them. I take it slowly. I do not run because there are two of us to think of.  We must keep pace with each other. Learn how to leave in order to return as one.

Pensee

You have given me the gift I was waiting for. It doesn't matter that I have waited for decades. It doesn't matter that I gave it to myself. It doesn't matter that it was always there for the taking. Waiting.

Paris is about the past, isn't it? Plaques on decaying buildings. Preservation. Your voice echoing in my head. Sweetheart. Over and over in your tremulous voice. The vibrations still hold. Reassuring me. In my own voice, I echo yours.

At the street corner, there is a sudden shift in the wind. Something lifts.As my vision worsens, I can see more clearly with my body. It moves on its own. Urges me forward.  As it moves, I am lightened. Something is carried off by the wind. I don't jump up to catch it. It is gone forever. Going back to where it never really existed.  Never was even a shadow. Or even, a shadow of a shadow.

Noctilucent

I can still laugh. That is what I have discovered in the last week. No matter how hard it is when you come to mind. No matter how much it still hurts. I am still capable of laughter. Maybe even more than before. Your death has made everyone dearer. Put faces into sharper focus. Intensified embraces.

Swinging between loss and laughter. Between you and me. Daring myself to believe that I can do something I have never done before. I could dye my hair red. Pack myself into tight jeans and cowboy boots.  Go dancing.

My laughter is not coming from the same place. It is deeper. Louder. Sweeter. What has come between us is nothing more than what was there. I can just see it now. Feel the provenance. Finally. In that brief moment when the summer skies darken. Right before the dawn.

Two months later

As I walk these streets filled with faces, I doubt I will remember even one.  Perhaps the profusion of redheads will register as a point of interest, but the features will blur. Maybe that bus driver with the slick black hair or the little grandmother from Ohio who stood with us on the train when there were no seats. Yes, maybe I will remember their faces for a short time. But not as long as yours. We don't just have memories, we memorize the faces of the ones we have loved. Noses. Eyebrows. Crevices. Sagging jowls. Whatever the familiar turns into, to become once again familiar until it leaves us.

A sharp pain anew when I realize that it is two months today. Two months without you.  I would love to visit with you. To tell you about my trip to Paris. How we ate your favorite foods. I wish I could tell you that we took you with us everywhere. But I cannot. If I did, then I would be lying. Because while you were with us, it is true that you were also gone.  This was a clearing. Not a remembrance.

I don't want to remember any faces. I want to go blank as I walk. I don't want to feel the wrenching pain of loss on every street. In every flower I see. In the first bite of chocolate. I want it to be new, if I can. I want to see myself. The man taking my ticket at the museum looks up and asks if he knows me. But it is the smile I flash him that he knows. It is a sign of recognition between us. Human to human. Yes, he knows me. Just as I know him. It is what we had fleetingly before you died. Eyes locked. Transferring love from one eye to the other.

La Perla

Reluctant to leave for Paris because I thought I would be leaving you behind. Instead, I have left myself behind. I follow the  path of your bread crumbs. You lead me back to some joy, some pain. Another place. Another memory. Whispering through the art work. The streets. But I am not really here. Even though this was my place and you were my visitor. I look through your eyes. Eat what you loved. Wear your clothes.

Unbearable loss. Days that go on and on.  Places we went together, still holding your
presence. Memory stopped.  You were many things to me, but the love I felt was boundless. It still is. How do I preserve it and shed it simultaneously? How do I make sense of  myself?

I return to the garden in the rain. My sister is by my side. We search for the ancient beekeeper who has taken shelter with his bees. Afraid to ask, we just watch.

Stroke of Genius

It has to be told. Told to be understood. I must be the one to tell it. It isn't a long story, but then again it isn't a short story. It is a moment in time that has passed, and yet,still remains. A tale of the moon. Of time lost and gained. Of intermittent smiles.Fleeting recognition. Insight. A boy flying. A book of recent recollections. Geometry unfolding as an art form. Wonder. At the end, it could be that there was nothing. Like an accordion without a player. Elongated memories stitched together. No sound. But the thoughts were so promising. So profound.  That we thought she was on to something.  After all, she had never disappointed. She may have been struck down,  but she was still with us.  We waited for her eyes to open. Even to flutter. It didn't matter how long it took.  We would wait. Wait as long as it took. She could see though she could not speak. Hear though she could not tell.

The eyes never really opened. Thoughts were never uttered. She left behind diamonds and pearls. Sparkles and luster. No one wants it. She is what we really want. Still. A message. A direction. She left us holding a rather large pause and no way to move through it.There may be strength in numbers, but is there sense?

 

The Beekeepers take Paris

Paris, will you take me as I am? I am not who I was. You are no longer familiar. Yet, I come back to you to lick my wounds and walk hand in hand with my sister. We will walk for one purpose. Walk until we can no longer walk. Ponder the future. Ride bicycles as we search for gardens. For flowers still in bloom. Colors that cannot possibly exist.  For the fiction.  But who will  tend to the old man with a broken heart while I am crossing the  Atlantic?

There is a clearing. But the burden doesn't lift. It is merely a glimpse into what might be. The possibility that I choose is a dwelling without a roof. I tell myself that is because I want an unfettered view of  the stars. But it is really because I am not sure I am ready for the stability a roof brings. She always told me that I was honey to the bees.  I mistakenly thought she meant something else. I was her honey. She was my bee.

Perfidious

The lie started to unravel when the dates became too hard to remember. Was it March 16th or was it July 16th? Was it 1919 or 1915? Why did it have to become a lie? It isn't important now. Actually, it never was. He would have loved her no matter what.  But it leaves a question. Makes us wonder. What else was she lying about? Saying one thing, meaning another. About everything. So, when I painfully remember her thanking me at the end, I have to ask what she really meant. Why was she thanking me? Me, who had never gotten her the video she asked for. Who put off resizing her wedding band so that it could fit her arthritic fingers.  Who forgot or postponed one thing after another.  Until it was too late. She could not watch a video. Could not wear her ring.  Was it a kind of thanks, but no thanks? There is no more conversation possible. So, I will never get an answer to any of my questions. I can only ponder what  I meant to her. Part servant, part child. Serving her until the end. Faithfully, but a little mediocre.  In the final months, it was not a matter of what she could watch, but being watched over. The pain. The distance. I would have swallowed her food for her. Offered her my blood. Her pain became mine. But she was never mine. I was sidelined. Ever watchful. Ever hopeful. Always waiting.

My wife

Each time he says it, the bond gets severed a little more. Like a death from a thousand cuts, at first it seems superficial and then suddenly you understand how much damage has been done.  He has cast off the black button in favor of a silver rose pin. He points to it and asks me what I think. I don't understand what I am supposed to think, so I foolishly ask him what it means. He shakes his head in reproach and tells me that it is to honor his wife. Emphasis stressed. Just as I was thinking of how she turned her back on me in my one and only dream about her. Just in case I was thinking otherwise. Just in case. He sets my expectations. Nothing has changed. Not really. I am still there serving the purpose I have always served. Seeing everything. Serving everyone. His wife. Not my mother. I understand. I have always understood.

Without her, he is with her. She is the only thing that seems real to him. Her absence proves his presence, because he echoes her. It is not a contradiction. What is memory, after all? Waltzing without moving. Singing without opening your mouth. It is his only hope. His redemption. That he can stay in those memories, fastened only by a sterling silver rose.

The Old Man and the Sea

She was a mariner, although boat trips made her seasick. Standing by the shore as he set off on yet another trip, she would watch but never wave goodbye. Then turn back into herself once he had gone. He was a world traveler, who always thought his Penelope would be there, waiting for him. Until she wasn't.  He knows, but he still dreams. Even trips to the bathroom give him hope that it has all been a nightmare. That he'll return and there she will be, as before. His shore. His shelter.

His balance is gone. He walks but doesn't trust himself.  Travel presents itself, yet he hesitates. The journey has lost its meaning for him. The mariner cannot tell him what direction he should take. He never knew how she did it. Never asked. She held the key. Made sure the wind blew him to and from his destination. She was his courage. His determination. Without her, the wind only rustles his hair. The sails refuse to budge. The ship stays moored. He sinks.

Children and Art

She has taken up residence in him. Since he saw her as his queen, she sits on a little throne inside him. Unfortunately, he is frozen and doesn't realize that if he could thaw just the tiniest bit, he would start feeling again. That her love for him was so vast that it could inspire masterpiece after masterpiece, if only he could see. He secretly stashed her sweater set in his dresser. When no one is looking, he sticks his nose into the drawer and inhales deeply. This only causes pain. He needs to dive deeper but is too afraid, so he stays on the surface where the scent is unbearable in its reminder. He wants to kiss her on the nose but there isn't a nose to kiss. He wants to stay in the pain so that he can keep her alive. But she isn't alive. At least in the sense he wants her to be. If he can let go, he could swim in her. Rejoice. As it is, he drowns in his tears. Even though they are unshed.

It is time for the life boat. She knows it more than he does. While he is still able. There are fresh canvases to paint. Colors to discover. New scents ready to entice him. She promises to be there when he returns.