Fragments
The House
Your family had a beautiful home. The ceilings were high, the gardens were grand, and it was filled with paintings you couldn’t touch and chairs you couldn’t sit on. You used to wear those dresses that would float all around you when you spun. I remember you telling it all while we sat in front of our fireplace drinking black lemon tea — two sugars and a dash of milk. But all that didn’t matter to you. Grandeur never mattered. The only thing you could not live without was the 21st of December, the shortest day of the year, and how the sun would start to set at exactly 4:38, and how the pink and orange light would travel through the tainted glass of the west wing windows in such a way as “to make the room breathe,” you’d say. And just for that, there is nowhere else you would have rather lived.
The Goodbyes
Your father hugged you like he never had before. You felt the love and the desperation and the resignation, all together in one last tight embrace. You never saw him again, but you always said that at least you got to say goodbye. You told me you were holding on to that goodbye when he turned and walked away only glancing back once, when he climbed into his car, when you ran after it through the empty cloud of dust it left behind, when news arrived that he would not be coming back. I remember the spark in your eyes, a lens of sadness and resilience. It was my turn to take you in my arms. He was never scared you know; it was 1944, he did not have time to be scared.
The Party
I was invited by a friend, an old school friend, but gone were the knee-socks, the spilled ink, and the echoes of teachers’ angry scoldings. “My father’s associates will be there”, he said. “You might end up making connections”, he said. We had been done with school for a few years but we were still what society would call “young men”, and young men at these parties were children come to dress up as adults. I got in through the front door with him to a house filled with smoke, roaring music and masked decadence — the worst kind. His father introduced us to important men with tough handshakes and pretentious smiles never reaching eyes. One of them might even have been your husband, but I would not have known him. And in that sea of self-importance, there you were, sitting at the long dining table with the other wives. You were smoking a cigarette, drinking pink champagne and draped in fur, unaware of your own splendour. You were smiling, talking, listening with one ear, laughing as if paying real attention, but your wandering eyes travelled inwards to a world unknown to anyone but yourself. You were something else. You still are. Bathed in the light coming from the fireplace, you met my stare with one of your own, fearless, and I was yours.
Misfortune
People say you never forget your first love. And perhaps people make the mistake of believing that a first love is always a right one. But is it? Some first loves never grow when the lovers do, and some first loves grow old before the lovers do. Before you knew it, your husband was a stranger inhabiting familiar skin, a proud man, an anxious man, an old man. You were his, by law and by will until law became prison. You thought you couldn’t leave. You couldn’t possibly leave a son behind, alone and defenceless against possessiveness and harsh words. Until the son was diagnosed as worse than the father. You know it was not his fault, nor yours. It doesn’t excuse anything, but it isn’t really his fault. Even so, I do hope you never forget; I do hope you always feel fortunate to look back and see what you escaped from. When in doubt, look into my eyes, my angel, remember what you escaped for.
A Different Life
They warned you right away that a life with me would be a “very different” one. They warned you that our age difference would be talked about with no rest. But you never cared. Of the two of us you were the youngest, not in age as we know well, but in your mind – a free-spirit burning with an independence refused to you for too long by your previous husband. A life with me meant hard work, and a small apartment, and bare walls, but you never complained, or resented leaving everything behind. You were always smiling, even when I felt like I was letting you down. You would lift my chin up so I could see that smile of yours. Until your natural faith in me and our hard work lead to bigger apartments and jewellery and art and abundance in every single aspect of our wonderful life. You were draped in fur again, a glass of pink champagne in hand and strings of pearls dangling from your perfect neck. It was a different life that’s for sure, but at the end of the day it was us — simply us.
Reunion
We always knew you would leave before me. We were prepared and came the day when we stopped dreading it. You grew more and more tired and your sight got weaker and weaker with every passing day. Our goddaughter called the day before. I kissed you on the forehead as a farewell from her, do you remember? I took care of her you know. You would be so proud of me, my angel, and of the person she’s growing up to become. Now, I am lying on an uncomfortable bed, in a cold hospital room. The walls are bare and an acrid smell hangs everywhere. I try to talk but nobody understands; I try to keep my eyes open but it’s too hard. She was here though – I saw her, I think. She held my hand. When everybody leaves, I think of you, my angel, and your clear blue eyes that now see better than ever before. You look at me, greet me home again. It’s the 21st of December, 4:38 in the afternoon, and the room breathes.