I am heavy. Weighted down in my soul. As though I am the corpse, not him. Wrapped in a blanket, thrown in salt water. Rocks tied to each corner, dragging me to the deep. It is not an ocean I drown in though, it is instead a sea of salty tears – of my own, and of others.
“He’s gone.”
Worried tension filled the air as we waited for those words. Whispered conversations. Silent prayers. Standing in a pocket doorway. Icy wind blasting me from behind. A heat vent fighting back against the cold with warm air pushing against my leg. Red and blue lights flashing still, their reflections glaring from the windows across my eyes.
White coats come. And she is told.
Shock. Then tears of disbelief. Gasping cries echo down the hallway. Loved ones frozen, stunned at those words we did not expect. No one moves. We are statues rooted in place. Lead by the hand down the hallway, robot legs, moving on their own accord, take them to the room to say goodbye.
One last hug and one last kiss.
I watch their backs as they go. Mother, wife, son. Not one of them woke up this morning expecting to be here now. I stand quiet in my corner. Busy work now bustling around me. The ones wearing reflective armour clean up. Returning life to normal. Hoping busy hands will make the mind forget. But tired, defeated spirits are everywhere I look. I see it in the downcast eyes and the deepened creases on their brows.
I am still.
Standing still, tear tracks dried upon my face. Fresh ones starting again as I see the boy rush out. He’s a man by age, but he’s a boy still, really. A man-child. Too young for this. Death is a shadow on his face. He’s desperate. To get outside, away, into that icy blast. I hope for him that the blast will reach in it’s cold fingers, to numb him from the inside out. If only for a little while.
There’s nothing more to do.
Down the hall. A knock at the door, we enter in. Heartbreak is solid in the room. It is a presence on it’s own. It is tangible. Physical. An unwelcome guest. She’s at his side. Sees us and stands. We hug. I hear myself say “I’m so sorry”. Empty helpless words that I wish I had not said. She pulls back. Looks in my eyes and says “you’ll have to excuse me, I’m not really here right now”. I squeeze her hand.
No words come out.
No words with which to fix this come to my mouth to speak, because right now there are none. I leave. The tears from her cheeks are still wet in my hair, a symbol of the sorrow I carry with me as I return to my day. She turns, back towards him again. Holding tight to his arm, and even tighter to the few remaining minutes she has left. She lays her forehead down on his chest, against the place which held his once beating heart.
Holding tight.
The room is lit up. They are silhouettes against the soft red light of the setting sun. And she remains, by his side, until the time comes for her to go home.
(© 2016 Leila Skidmore)
Leila Elizabeth
A bend in the road led me to embrace my introversion, and to discover my identity as a highly sensitive person. As I have moved along the path in learning more about who I am, how to take care of myself as an introvert, and how to handle the challenges of life as an HSP - my love of writing has been rekindled and embraced once again. It intertwines with the journey I am on, and is reflected in what I write.
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