The End of the Hall

My feet sink as I wiggle them side to side, deeper and deeper, the salty water and a myriad of quartz crystals sucking them under. I plop my bottom down with a splat on what feels like liquid concrete, but again it welcomes me, and I shift down into the sand until it molds around my whole body.

The waves roar incessantly, massaging my waterlogged eardrums, stretching themselves thin to reach me, and swirling my hair in a giant arc as they loop back toward the sea. Something wiggles and pushes against my calf, tickling me until I giggle. Is it your toes or a little sand crab hunting for food? Your hand slides into mine, and eyes still closed, I decide it is both.

The sun kisses my skin, and I beg it to seep into my frame, warm me til I glow. But it slides away, like the water to the sea, and a brittle chill creeps back in. I open my eyes to stare at the popcorn ceiling, alone in bed. My chest squeezes tight, and I can feel it in my bones: Today is a day for goodbyes.

I abandon my morning routine, the rituals that have gotten me through the past two years in this strange place I can’t call home. No coffee, shower, or watering of plants. Instead, I dress and head to the graveyard.

I stand in front of the small headstone without reading the words I know by heart. My eyes rest on the tiny blue wildflowers nestled in the thick grass at the base of the granite. How perfect. Such delicate, fleeting lives, like his. Like all of ours, I suppose. The binoculars zoom in on my life, focus, then blur again. I am too weary to make sense of it all.

I raise my fingers to my lips, kiss them, and place them on the stone, the only tangible evidence he existed. I feel my other love calling to me. I must make haste, although that word hasn’t applied to me in years.   

The hospital doors slide open, welcoming me into the unforgiving labyrinth. How many people enter these halls without ever finding the exit? I brush the thought aside and concentrate on walking.

No amount of insoles or thick rubbered shoes can insulate my knees from the tile floors. Slick and sterile, they mock me at each jarring step. Where did my cartilage go? Ha! Where did the years go? The earth kept on turning. Rotations and orbits; so many, so few.

With each door I pass, memories float across my mind. I see us buoyant and carefree, just children really, giddy with summertime love.

The day I met you had been a complete disaster. Mother wiped away my tears, consoling me when no guests arrived for my thirteenth birthday party. But as we covered the uneaten cake, you showed up with a purple jewelry box in hand, and your smile saved the day.

“I invited our new neighbor,” she whispered in my ear, and I had never loved her more.

We swam in the pool all summer, floating on our backs while holding hands. You never let go. If only they would flood the halls with warm water now, I would ride the wave all the way to your door.

The irksome mask slips off my nose. I need to slide it back up, but my arm disobeys. “Et tu, Brute?” I rasp. The right will have to do. Still, I smile.

My grin reflected in your ski mask when we reached the bottom of the black diamond slope, a white diamond just placed on my hand. It glittered wildly, more fresh than the powdery snow. You had fallen hard, and there were snowflakes in your beard. As I kissed you, they melted on my lips, and I knew there was nothing better.

Now my breath pants from the exertion of this journey, through lips that are dry and cracked. A silver locket, pulled from the purple box this morning, rises and falls on my chest with the ragged inhalations that feel more like a choice than a reflex.

Another hallway junction teases me with options. My brain feels fuzzy. How many wrong turns have I taken?

I forgot the road map on our trip to the beach. You were so mad at me when you gave up and pulled over. We laid on a grassy hillside as a breeze made the wildflowers dance, and we decided we didn’t mind being lost together. A police officer found us and let us follow his blue lights the rest of the way. To the sand. The waves. Our favorite place. The route became ingrained in our minds, and we never got lost again.  

I slowly pass the Perinatal Unit painted in pastel hues, and I see a stillborn baby in your arms. The only offspring you would ever hold, your tears landed on his little blue face. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, a deep ache kept me awake, and the gaping emptiness threatened to consume me. But in the darkness, you pulled me close. You were enough, and the scars slowly healed. Together we learned how to keep living.

Hot tears slip out of my eyes and slide to the tile floor. Treacherous. Treacherous.

Beauty and pain, joy and loss. Happy or angry, we walked hand in hand. United. So, I continue to walk, to trudge, despite the daggers in my heart. I’m coming, my love.

Your voice was my courage. My laugh was your joy. Your stubbornness drove me crazy, but it saved me, too. From 13 to 90, we made each year count.

A digital clock on the ceiling hangs over my head. The numbers glow red in warning, but I don’t need a reminder. I can feel the urgency tick, tick, ticking in my veins.

Endurance. It requires no special skills. Now I pull from it again, my final reserves, dragging the old me toward you with a spirit that only feels complete by your side. Pain serpentines through my body until I can’t tell where it came from or where it will end, but I blink it away.

I keep taking steps until I hear the beeping.

I make it to the end of the hall. To you.

Your eyes, haunted from sickness not regret, flicker to mine for a moment, then close.

The pain steals my breath.

You take your last breath.

Flatlines at the end of the hall.

I fall to my knees.

We will run hand in hand.

I’m coming.