Letting Go

Allen Moore takes a seat on the couch. He’s wearing the #1 dad t-shirt his kids gave to him six years ago. It has shrunk and he has grown around the middle. He wears it with the worn-out pair of black & blue plaid pajama bottoms his wife always threatened to throw away. She never did because she knew they were his favorite. An off-white terrycloth robe and moccasin slippers top off the ensemble that compliments his unkempt hair and a week’s worth of stubble. He pours bourbon into a tumbler piled to the top with ice. He stares at the bronze coloring as he gives it a couple swirls. He drinks it down like a refreshing soda on a hot summer's day, then refills the glass. He pulls out his laptop from underneath the couch. He selects a memory card from the wallet filled with them and inserts it in his computer. The screen displays a play button. He moves the cursor over it and clicks.

A stringed quartet strums The Wedding March. His wife appears at the end of the aisle on her father’s arm. They begin their march down the red velvet runner that stretches the length of the aisle, dotted with white rose petals that his four-year-old niece scattered so gracefully. The guests oohed and aahed. She was a vision of angelic beauty that day. Her fair skin was complimented by the white dress, making her dark features stand out. She looked so tiny coming down the aisle with her dad, who was only five-ten. Allan remembers what he thought at that moment, the moment he saw his bride to be walking down the aisle. “She’s so delicate, so fragile, like a porcelain doll. I will love and protect her with every fiber of my being.”

The camera captures the smile on her face as her father hands her to her groom. She wasn’t happy that day, she was excited. Allen could see it in her eyes. The joy that radiated from her face overwhelmed his heart. He thought he was going to cry in front of everyone. He remembers consciously stopping himself from doing so. As they recite their vows to one another, Allen mumbles along, having remembered them fifteen years later.

The camera cuts out and comes back in at their reception. Allen fast forwards through all the toasts, all the private good lucks and wish-you-wells. He stops at their first dance. He takes another large drink, lights a cigarette, and leans back. She was so graceful. She had been dancing since she was three. She was like a flower in a gentle breeze mixed with the tides of the ocean but glowed like the moon. All he had to do was stand there, be in the moment, and appreciate the elegance of the woman he could now call his wife. As Allen watches them dance, he hums along to George Michael’s Careless Whisper, her favorite song. It wasn’t just the first song they danced to as husband and wife. It was the first song they danced to.

It was Allen’s senior year in college, her sophomore. They were both at the same bar. It wasn’t any place special. It was crowded, noisy, and lowly lit. He didn’t notice her until it was after the last call. After that, most of the patrons left. The place was filthy. The essence of beer and urine had mingled into one obnoxious odor. The lights had come on. He was just about to leave when he saw her sitting there finishing her drink, laughing with friends. He was awestruck by her beauty and decided there was enough time for one more song. He went to the jukebox and selected D17: Careless Whisper, and he asked her to dance.

Allen finishes off his second glass then refills it. Out of the card wallet, he selects another card. This one is of their honeymoon. All the grandparents pitched in and sent them to Hawaii. Here, he was filming her on the beach, her hair blowing in the wind. They were taking an after dinner stroll that evening. They ended up having one of the deepest conversations they ever had about their plans for the future. Allen lit up another cigarette and takes another drink as he listens to her telling him about all her dreams and goals. He remembers thinking in that moment, “I’ll give you all that and more.”

Allen pulls out another memory card. This one has her sweaty and breathing heavily. He’s holding her hand with one hand and filming with the other. He’s trying to be encouraging and supportive, but she’s in insurmountable pain and can’t help but look at him as an annoyance. The doctor says push. Her face cringes and her teeth gnash. A growl rolls into a yell, and she relaxes. The doctor tells her to push again. She bears down. She’s using all the strength she has. He can see it on her face. The growl this time develops into a cry, and she says, “I can’t.” The doctor says she can. Allen tells her she can. She shakes her head no. She’s tired. She’s crying. Then, without warning, she gives it all she’s got. The doctor reports that he can see the head. She pushes with all her might and collapses on the bed. The camera picks up crying and the doctor saying it’s a girl. Allen fast-forwards through all the weighing and measuring. He stops when they hand his wife the baby. The look on her face was one of the purest love. It was a look Allen had never seen in the eyes of another human being before. He was surer than ever that his wife was going to be the greatest mother that ever lived.

Allen gets up and stretches. He meanders into the kitchen where he dumps out the old ice and refills it with new. Closing the freezer door, a picture catches his attention. It’s a recent picture of her with the girls. She’s thin, hardly recognizable. She has a colorful scarf wrapped around her head. Her smile is fake, forced, just for their benefit. Inside, she’s suffering pain and fatigue that he can’t possibly imagine. Inside she’s dying. Allen throws the glass of ice against the wall. It shatters. He screams curses at God that he quickly regrets. He goes to clean up his mess, picking up the larger pieces of glass before getting the broom. He carelessly cuts himself. He goes to the sink and washes the wound. He wraps it in a paper towel. Leaning his back against the sink, he begins to sob.

Back on the couch with a bandaged finger and fresh glass of bourbon, Allen selects another memory card. This one is of Halloween. It was the first year his youngest got to go trick-or treating. She and the girls dressed up as their favorite Disney princesses. It was only fitting that she was Snow White. She always had that youthful spirit about her. It was accompanied by a youthful glow. She was always the first one in line to help when people were in need. Her caring nature wouldn’t allow her to be any other way. She truly was the fairest of them all. Allen watches as each girl poses in their costume. His wife was a whiz with a sewing machine. His oldest was Cinderella. His youngest was Tinker Bell. He filmed them as they skipped down the driveway and disappeared into the night.

Allen gulps down a full tumbler of bourbon and lights a cigarette. He thumbs through the memory cards, trying to decide which one to watch next. The front door opens and slams shut. His fourteen-year-old daughter is home from school.

“No! We’re not doing this today, dad,” she says waving away the smoke. “I miss mom too, but we have to go on with our lives. That is what she would have wanted,” she says as she yanks open the blinds. Allen shields his eyes from the brightness. “What time did you get up today,” she demands to know.

“I don’t know, Kelly, noonish.”

“Have you eaten anything?”

Allen doesn’t answer. He just pours another drink and puts out his cigarette.

Kelly kneels down in front of her father. “Dad, you need to get help. Otherwise, Ashley and I will have to go live with grandma. We cannot stay here and watch another parent slowly die.”

#

Allen has traded in his robe and pajama bottoms in for a pair of slacks and an oxford. He’s freshly shaven and his hair is nicely groomed. He sits in an oversized leather chair facing a professional looking lady in a pleated skirt and white blouse. Her hair is pulled back. Her glasses are on. She has a pen and paper at the ready. Allen is nervous. He feels a lump forming in his throat. He holds back the tears that are trying to form in his eyes. He looks at the woman and says, “I lost my wife to cancer, and I don’t know how to go on without her.”