Saying Goodbye

She stood on the platform of the observation car and watched the city she had always known as home grow smaller. She didn’t want to go back into the train car. His absence in the seat next to her was a knife that twisted and turned in her gut, reminding her of all she had lost when the only heart she had ever loved had stopped beating. So she dallied on the platform and contemplated the life she had lived, the death that had interjected, and the future that was unknown.

She was too young to be a widow but too old to be a bride. She would get a cat and read until her eyes grew dim. She would knit scarves for the neighborhood children and make soup for the less fortunate. She would join a bridge club. She would do crossword puzzles. Perhaps she would learn to quilt and join a quilting circle. She would keep herself busy, as her sister had instructed: Keep yourself busy. That’s the only way to get through this. You can stay with me and Bob until you’re back on your feet. 

Back on her feet . . . meaning, dug out from under the mountain of debt she hadn’t been aware her husband had amassed. Loan collectors calling day and night, not caring that he was six-feet below over at St. Michael’s. Back on her feet . . . after selling their beautiful home, liquidating their furniture, their art, her jewelry—everything but her wedding set, the opulent diamond that turned heads whenever the light hit it. She couldn’t bear to part with it.

How she loved that diamond! The sparkling proof that she was the beloved of a successful man! She was eighteen when they married, which wasn’t so strange back then. He was ten years older, also commonplace in that time, and so dapper in his tailored suits and polished shoes. He had made quick work of claiming her heart, visiting the shop where she worked every afternoon with flowers, or a fancy pastry, or jewelry. He called them tokens. A token for your smile. A token for your hand. A token for your heart. 

How she had admired him and the leisurely life he offered her! She who had always had to work so hard to earn her keep. He would mix cocktails, watering hers down because of her youth and her size, and invite her to the balcony of his downtown apartment where he would smoke his cigar and pull her to his lap for kisses. She would worry about passersby seeing them, and he would laugh and call her his sweet, perfect angel. She would get tipsy, even with her drinks watered down, and he would slip his hand under her skirt, pinch her in places that made her squeal in protest.

He had bought her the home on Grand Avenue with its sweeping verandas that overlooked the park as a wedding present. How she had loved to sit out there with her tea and a book on quiet afternoons. There were so many hours in the day to occupy, with his long hours at the office, and he didn’t like her too much away from home. She had joined his club and begun learning tennis but had tripped and sprained her wrist. He couldn’t stand to see her injured, and was afraid she might be hurt again; she was so clumsy, after all. He was so endearing in his pleas for her safety that she did as he asked and quit the club, even though she was just starting to show progress in her game.

She had loved the local library, the long walk to and fro with her satchel of books, the meaningful conversations with the friendly librarians—sometimes the only other people she spoke to all day until he returned home late in the evenings. She loved the smell of paper, the smooth pine of the bookshelves, the large arched windows and doorways. The library was a cathedral, transcendent and holy. But, a woman was hit by a car . . . It was a tragedy displayed on the front page of the newspaper—a young mother who stepped in front of a bus downtown—so, he didn’t want her to walk anymore. And besides, he had a library full of books at her disposal.

He definitely would not want her out here on this platform. She was so gangly and silly; he wouldn’t want her to get hurt! He cared for her so much—he always had her best interest in mind. She leaned into the rail and watched the tracks disappearing behind the car until she was dizzy. She breathed in the crisp air to steady herself. It had turned chilly as night fell. She would catch a cold. She didn’t eat enough. Didn't rest enough. Didn’t take enough exercise. She was weak and frail and shouldn’t expose herself to all manner of illness by being out in this weather. She inhaled deeply as she studied the emerging stars.

She had liquidated their assets, so she didn’t need to move in with her sister and Bob. She had paid off his debts and had enough left over to purchase a small home in a historic town, walking distance to the library. She would follow her sister’s advice, though, to stay busy. That was the only way to get through this, after all. She would plant a garden and build a rose arbor under which to read in her backyard. She would take back up her tennis lessons. How she loved tennis! She would learn other things too. She’d always wanted to learn figure skating . . . and downhill skiing . . . and horseback riding! Maybe she would learn acrobatics and perform horseback! She was too young to be a widow, too old to be a bride, but she was just the right age to be herself.

She made her way into the rail car and took her seat, took off her gloves and folded them into the pocket of her coat. She draped her coat across the empty seat beside her and felt the twist of the knife, the pain of all she had lost. His was the only love she had ever known. She pulled a book from her satchel, and that’s when she noticed her bare left hand . . . first with shock, then horror, then something akin to budding delight. How light her hand felt without the added weight! She wiggled her third finger and a slow smile spread across her face as she realized . . . she had left her wedding rings behind.