Life and Death

She turned almost reluctantly, as if she had no will of her own, slowly, hesitantly, and yet with a thrill that ran through her body, and made her blood sing.  He was standing there, his hair loose about his shoulders, straight and tall. She met his eyes, they seemed so blue, a brighter blue than even the sky that surrounded them. His shoulders, where the hair hung were broad and well muscled like his arms, and she remembered how strong they had felt when she was held by them. His body had cupped around hers as if to protect her and cherish her.  She went to him.  And awoke.

In the spring the birds came home, slowly and quietly, with nothing to herald their arrival.  One day there was nothing but the bare branches swaying in the wind, and the next she was awoken by bird song.  She was the only one that noticed, and for her it signalled 100 days that she had been alone.  100 cold and lonely nights, nights where she had dreamed constantly of him, always she sensed him, turned and went to him, but awoke before she reached him.  Sometimes she walked towards him, at other times she ran, and sometimes she could not move at all, but awoke with his face imprinted in front of her eyes, the smell of him lingering in her mind, and the memory of the feel of him everywhere about her. 100 days of his body lying cradled in cold earth and wood.  100 days of a life snuffed out.

The summer had been theirs; bright, beautiful days filled with sunshine.  She had never been happier. What bliss to look at someone and to see them look back at you with a smile, or a glance, and to know that they saw your soul, knew your heart, and understood.  That was something she had never had before, and perhaps would never have again.  Every moment that wasn’t spent touching was a wasted moment, it had been imperative that they hold onto each other because not to touch was to be apart, and that was impossible.  They were no longer two people, but one person, two halves of a whole, and one could not exist without the other.

And yet, she lived.  She lived while he had died. His body wasted away and grew thinner day by day. The moments slipped away, his shoulders grew less broad, his muscles disappeared, flesh melted onto bone and his hair, oh his beautiful, luxurious hair that she had so loved to touch, it had fallen out strand by strand until there was nothing left but pearly white skin.  His arms no longer held her, instead she held him, he too weak to do much more than lie there.  She had told him stories, over and over, until she was hoarse; the silence between them unbearable because it would remind them that time was disappearing too fast, too soon, and could never be regained.

When the day had finally come and he closed his eyes, drew his last breath, and slipped neatly away from this life with less drama than he had entered it, she had wanted to go with him.  A piece of her had been torn away, she had given him everything she had and even that had not been enough to keep him tied to the earth.

At first she had not been able to face life without him, every single thing was his, she could feel him as a part of her and a part of everything around her, and it was intolerable.  How could she be breathing when he was not?  How could she walk, talk and be a living being when his body was decaying piece by piece under the earth.  How could she be here when he was not?  She had drunk until she could drink no more, trying to forget, and yet trying so desperately to remember every single thing about him.  Then came those horrifying moments when she could not remember his face, the sound of his voice, or the exact colour of his eyes, and then she would think she was dying after all.

She had lain in bed, staring vacantly at the wall, unable to participate in a life that could not contain him, unable to believe that she was meant to be living. It should have been her, not him, she should have gone, what purpose did she have to stay here in misery without him?  And then she was angry, so furiously angry at him for leaving her, making her live her life without him. She was so lonely and filled with so much pain she thought she would burst from it.  She had raged at him, at God, her parents, anyone within in reach.  She prayed desperately for some sign that life was not meaningless, and that she should not throw it all away in despair.

Then she had cried again, but properly this time, a river of grief bursting its dams until there was nothing left inside of her, and then she had slept.  When she woke, she had realised that he had not left her alone in the world after all, that where he had once cupped her in his arms and held her safe, her body now held and cupped another, safe and warm. She had pulled herself back into the world then and lived.  It had been hard, she missed him so much, but as her body grew to accommodate the growing child within her it had become easier.  There was a reason to live now and it seemed just a little less unbearable. She had her sign.

When finally the baby was born and lay in her arms, she had looked down, and saw his face staring back her, their child opened her eyes and she knew that they were his eyes.  She had wept for joy then, and sadness, at this beautiful life, his daughter who would never know her father, but would always see his face staring back at her in the mirror for the rest of her life. 

And so a part of her was restored, the piece of her that had been taken away when he had died had been replaced and reformed into this new person.  She would stare at the baby for hours on end, counting all the ways that she was like her father, all the ways that she was like her mother, and all the ways that she was just herself.  She planned futures, a myriad of them, all happy, safe, and without even the barest hint of loneliness.  She saw the world anew again through her daughter’s eyes ,and laughed and cried at the beauty of it, no longer an ugly thing to be left in haste, but wonderful and amazing, something to be held onto for as long as she could.