This Passing Life

This Passing Life

My last dream I ever had came the night that I died. The dream was as much a blur as I envisioned it then, as it is now as I recall it. However, amidst the obscured illusion of time and place, accompanied by both familiar and unfamiliar faces, arose a distinct moment that is forever etched in my mind. It is the moment that I cling to, which keeps me fighting. If I let go I shall never know her love again.
* * * * *

I try not to stir Cora to life, afraid to throw her out of her reverie. She lies so peacefully. Her pale face makes a delicate contrast against the bare white pillowcase. If I were to touch her, perhaps to wipe the fallen hair that slips along her feminine cheekbone, I may smudge the painting. My throat is dry like sand paper contrasting the moist, sticky air. It is hard not to become uncomfortable upon waking on a humid summer morning. I remove the sheets that cover half my body. The cool air brought in from the open window above the bed strikes my naked legs, making conscious to me every bead of sweat that rests on them. I take in the cool comfort for a moment then gracefully swing my legs over the edge of the bed, placing them gently on the floor. Cora stirs awake, or so I fear, as I sit motionless, waiting, listening to her breath, listening for a whisper or a word to renounce my getting up. Nothing. Then a warm hand touches my back for no more than a second before falling, the finger tips tracing the path, unable to hold fast.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“To get a glass of water.” I do not turn to face her.
“Don’t leave me,” she mutters under her breath, trailing off as she slides into the warmth of sleep once again. I stand and go to the kitchen.
I sit at the dining table and sip the water, taking my time. The cool trickling of the water lines my throat, and I can feel it all the way down to my hollow stomach. At the center of the table is a vase with lilies, Cora’s favorite, left over from the funeral. They are the only flowers she has kept even though they have long since withered; most of the petals have crumbled leaving a coat of dust around the base of the vase. The whole arrangement seems almost fragile in spite of its lack of color, of life.
The house feels empty, cold, dark. I focus intently on the flowers, as if the light of my eyes could bleed new life into the withered image, but it is in vain. The flowers have long since passed and taken with them a part of her loneliness. I know now what I have been neglecting all along. I am as withered as the lilies. My soul is waiting for me to let go of my memories, to let go of this world and find a new world, a new life, perhaps. The glass slips from my hand shattering on the tiled floor, sending a spray of water in all directions as the bits of glass and water become one. I am dreaming again.
The blur of voices and the familiar and unfamiliar faces surround me. Nothing seems real, like it is a water color painting. I feel nothing; I know nothing. She kisses me. I snap back into reality. The kiss is a jolt of life, of love. I see her now, clearly. More clear than the painting on the pillow case. More clear than I have ever seen her. And I feel her, too. I feel the rush of a love a thousand years strong. “Good-bye.” She rests her fingers on my lips for a moment, then nothing.