A Pale Reflection

I had been lying in bed for a while, watching the sun rise and shine through the window, reflecting off of the face of my wife. She had always been so bright and cheerful, the definition of a sunny attitude.

I slipped out of bed, slid into some casual clothes I had left on the floor and slinked out of the apartment. It was a warm spring morning. April the fifth, the day of our wedding anniversary. Our first wedding anniversary. I was going to make sure it was a very special one.

I walked down to the corner store and popped in. I ordered a coffee and a ham and cheese panini. On ciabatta of course. It was her favorite breakfast, after all. Simple and easy, as things should have been.

Down to the bus stop I went, munching on breakfast. Dan was there, a neighbor three doors down from our apartment. He was looking at me like he was trying to figure out what to say, then decided not to say anything at all. “Morning, Dan,” I said to him, after gulping down the last mouthful.

“How’re you, today?” Dan asked, not looking at me.

“I’m alright,” I replied. “Got a lot of shopping to do today. You?”

“Same, the wife sent me out with a honey-do list,” Dan said, letting his sentence trail off.

I snickered, ”I know how that can be.”

The bus pulled up, people shuffled off and on. I saw Dan take the first empty seat, right between a sleepy teenager and stern looking old man. I walked to the back and took an empty bench to myself. The bus trundled off down the street. Looking out the window I saw people bustling about in that big city way.

We had moved here six months ago, and I still wasn’t quite used to all the commotion. The constant sounds, the way people look past one another, destination being the total focus. As I watched I looked for the journey people. The ones who relished in the now. It was usually couples.

There was a pair, I saw, across the street. They were having breakfast. Sitting at a small table in front of a cafe. She was talking animatedly, all smiles and glowing. He was just nodding, smiling and caressing one of her hands in both of his.

Further down the street was an older couple. I often wondered if an elder had reached their destination, how long ago that was, or how much further they had to go. It was refreshing though, seeing the older couple. Sitting on a park bench, watching the world go by and just enjoying each other’s company. It was the simple things.

The bus stopped in shopping district. I got up and made my way to the front. “Take care of yourself, okay?” Dan said to me as I passed by. I gave him a smile and thanked him before I walked into the street. Other people jostled past me as I turned right and headed for the book store.

It was a small store. The front half was dedicated to merchandise, the only thing keeping the store open. It had dingy yellow lighting, a maze of old wooden bookshelves and a musty smell. I loved it, almost as much as my wife.

It was almost lunch time, but I wasn’t feeling very hungry. I wandered off into the maze and got lost in the titles. Here were the political thrillers. There were the biographies. I ran my hand across a shelf of children’s books as I walked past. I wondered about a child of my own, what they might be like. I turned a corner into the science fiction section. There was a cleared space where another shelf would have been. Instead it was inhabited by plush reading chairs and a small coffee table. A small, secret place. Squirreled away from the bustling world outside. My wife often came here when the waters would get too rough, and needed a place away from the sea of people outside.

For a while, I let myself get lost in the pages. Thumbing through this. Glancing at a synopsis of that. Sitting, then wandering, then sitting again. Eventually I found a nice dystopian thriller. My wife loved that particular author as well. She would go on about how he waxed philosophically, using the narratives as creative illustration. I was just happy reading something with action and well described food. She never let me live that one down, always poking fun at my weird tastes.

I bought the book, paying extra to have the cheery cashier gift wrap it. “She just loves these kinds of thrillers doesn’t she?” I vaguely recognized the girl. Usually I just passed her by, heading for the next destination with my wife.

“She sure does,” I replied to her.

“Well, tell her I’ve missed seeing her. It’s been a while since she popped in.”

I smiled, “sure. I’ll do that for you.”

After leaving, I walked back down to the bus stop. It was a short wait for another long ride. On the way, I people watched some more. School must have been out for the day. I saw a teenage couple, all yammering, stammering and full of awkward. It was cute. You could tell they had recently started their journey together. Their only destination being in the other’s eyes.

I hopped off the bus at the next stop and started the next long walk of my own journey. Half way there I stopped by another corner store. I bought the biggest, most garish bouquet of roses they had. I resumed my walk.

The sun was getting low in the sky as I crossed the street. Passing through a large wrought iron gate, I made my way down a grassy lane. There was a large oak tree with a bench underneath it. I sat down, set the gifts aside, held my face in my hands and felt the tears begin streaming. It was a quiet heaving and sobbing. Once I gathered myself together, I wiped my nose and looked up at my wife’s headstone. I got up and walked over to it. I knelt in the grass and placed the book up against the stone. Someone had emptied the vase I had left there, so I filled it with the bouquet. I laid a hand on the ground I knew her to be under.

“Happy anniversary,” my throat seized up.

“The girl at the bookstore misses you,” I choked out.

“I saw Dan today, he seems to be doing well,” I mumbled, watching a tear, then another roll down my nose to patter on the grass.

I thought back to six months ago, when we first moved to the city. Neither of us wanted to live in this place, but it was the closest medical center that was capable of treating her cancer. The treatment was supposed to be simple, but there were complications. In the end, she had lived two months longer than expected. I remembered trying to enjoy every single moment I had with her. Even bald and emaciated, her smile shone bright through my memory. My ray of sunshine.

I don’t know how long I sat there. My legs ached and I thought my heart would give out. It had long since grown dark, and cold. Both in the world, and in my mind. Hunger began knocking at my door.

I stood up and breathed deep. I looked out across the small lake in the cemetery. The moon was a pale reflection dancing on the water. I thought back to the picture of my wife on my night stand. A pale reflection of the sunny smile I’ll always remember.