When the Music Fades

I stand at the stove and don’t hear footsteps. There’s no shuffle of slippers on the worn kitchen floor, no fridge squeaking open and shut again, no humming of old gospel songs while bacon crackles and spits on the stove. Funny how the smallest things create the grooves you live by. Funny how you never notice those grooves until something washes them away, leaving you to slip on the slick ground.

My body demands a lung-sized sigh. It both refreshes and drains me. Loneliness creeps into the mornings when I let them stretch out too long, so I go fill the kettle, set it on the stove, and turn the knob to get this morning moving. It’s not much, but she likes it this way—strong, first thing in the morning, and a few drops of milk to take the edge off the bitterness. I’m not sure if it matters to her anymore, but she used to treasure her morning coffee. So I learned how to make it. A pour-over. Fancy, how she likes it.

Breakfast is much harder.

The fridge squeaks when I open it and I have to turn on the radio for gospel music. It feels wrong—forced and unnatural—but I do it. I still can’t figure out how to get bacon crispy without burning it, so I burn it, but I cook the eggs in the fat afterward and they’re exactly right. She gave me that secret before, and now I do it every morning. Even though she doesn’t ask for it, even when she doesn’t eat or drink what I make, I make it. I don’t know what else I would do. I’ll keep digging at those grooves she made, doing my best to hold onto them.

I bring a plate of bacon and eggs, along with a mug of coffee with a splash of milk, into the living room. The shades are drawn, which feels like a crime, but I don’t open them because she doesn’t like them open anymore. Our home used to be alive, dishes constantly piling in the sink no matter how you washed them, voices bouncing off the walls when you needed quiet, and dirt collecting the minute you cleaned it up.

Back then, I remember hating the rush of it. I couldn’t keep up. But now, as silence drags against every corner of the house, I realize we were living through music before. It was imperfect and it was beautiful. But now the music has faded.

I don’t mind the silence lately. I can’t mind it, because she can’t help it. So I set the plate of food and mug of coffee on the small table in front of her couch. Her favorite station hums softly on the television in the background—if she hears it, I can’t know. She doesn’t really notice anything anymore, but that doesn't mean I'll turn it off.

The coffee steams on the table.

The bacon and eggs wait, untouched.

I run my hand over her forehead as she sleeps on her couch, brushing her hair to the side. Her eyebrows furrow a little, but her eyes don’t open. Sometimes, every once in a while, there’s something about the way she looks at me that tells me she recognizes me again. She knows me. She knows us. Whenever that happens, I feel so much hope it physically hurts. I'll marvel at her eyes, so round and green. I'll talk to her, using her name, and say something, anything, that used to make her laugh. But then, always, it’s like a cloud rolls in over her mind and she’s gone. She looks through me rather than at me, and all that hope blows away. It’s the worst breaking of my heart I’ve ever experienced.

She used to be so alive—her hands busy, her mind racing ahead of her body. Writing, baking, fixing. She could do anything, and I would follow her everywhere, trying to keep up. She hasn’t spoken much lately. When she does, her words are soft and not like her, like they’re coming from somewhere far away in her mind. Or from someone else entirely. Now, her hands lay still, betrayed by her body with weakness and forgetfulness.

Right now, she makes the smallest movement. Of course, I notice it. It’s all I have left of her now. A twitch, a breath, a sigh in the quiet. It always stirs that hope, but as I stare and stare and stare at her… the clouds come in. Hope blows away. Heartbreak swells in my chest.

My body demands another sigh and force my lungs to fill, then empty. I go over to the window and peak behind the blinds, careful to block the sunlight coming into the room with my body. I don’t want it to spill across her eyes and make the pain worse.

Through the small gap, I can see the yard outside and the street with neighbor cars parked along it. I see the trees that have grown and sprouted closer to the sky since we moved here. I see the garden, weeds feeding on the soil she tended. All that's left of her out there is the rosebush, the one she planted years ago before she looked me square in the eye, placed her dirt-crusted hands on her hips, and said with such plain matter-of-factness…

“Our life is so beautiful.”

It wasn't an emotion. It wasn't a romantic moment, or even a moment that lead to a romantic one. It was an observation. A decision. A respectful acknowledgment of what was. It was simple, and it was true.

I believed her then, and I believe her still, even if she can’t say it anymore. Even if she can’t be the one to keep the grooves of our life in their proper places.

I drop the blind, cross the room, and lean down, pressing a kiss on her forehead. Her skin is cold, so I draw the blanket closer around her, then lay a second one on top. She won’t notice. She doesn’t remember me. She doesn't remember much of anything anymore, but that’s okay.

I’m here, and I’ll stay.

Even as days slip through my fingers and everything we were slips right along with them, I’ll stay. Because what’s left of us matters more than anything else. I want to be here for whatever is left.

I go back into the kitchen, thankful to be able to wash up the dishes I piled in the sink.