Solitaire

I wake up with the distant dream of him lurking in the sleepy corners of my mind. One man might not hold the power to shatter the world, but he continues to unravel mine with quiet devastation. I exist in a place where souls wander in search of oblivion. Though I bear no ill intent, I hate my husband. I gave it my all, yet that valiant effort still falls short of what’s needed, doesn’t it? He did what he needed. He never considered me. There was a time when I accepted this role, content to be the second choice, the lingering afterthought, simply because being remembered is better than being forgotten. After all, if truth be told, I didn't choose me either. But he was mine and I was his and what will become of me now?

For hours, I lie confined to my bed, clutching at a slender thread of hope that something, anything, might keep me from confronting the reality waiting just beyond the stark white wooden door. The house creaks around me, as though it’s waiting too. Silent whispers dance along the walls, soft footsteps emanate from where there should be none. My heart tightens at the sounds, but it’s the air that makes it hard to breathe, thick and oppressive, as though the house itself has absorbed the weight of years of grief. The heat of August refuses to die, even in the dead of night.

As the sun rises, so does my resolve and, more importantly, my thirst. I know I have to go beyond my four walls sooner or later, and it is already later. Judging by the sun’s languid, high ride across the sky, it is well past breakfast and maybe even lunch. Getting up was only the first challenge of the day.

My bones, delicate and feeble, seem ill-suited to bear the weight of this harsh world. My body - frail as it is - struggles against the relentless pull of gravity. And now, my burden feels even heavier in his absence. This wretched world, laden with guilt and grief, presses down upon me like a thousand thick blankets. The heavy comforters stuffed with goose feathers - the kind that occasionally stab you with their stiff quills. Suffocating and itchy and warm.

In the bathroom, the mirror offers no mercy. My unkempt hair sags in lifeless strands over puffy cheeks; dark crescents mar my eyes. The reflection speaks of another long, sleepless night , even though I had collapsed at the tender hour of eight, lulled into unconsciousness by the relentless buzz of infomercials and the numbness of boredom.

Everything seems achievable once you abandon the habit of hiding from your own truth. Yet the painful reality remains: I have never quite mastered that art. Every time I confront the demons lying within, his face appears - along with the acute awareness of wreckage that is now my life. I once believed I could love without restraint, but love, for me, is always tainted by the dread of inevitable loss. It is a hollow, desperate sort of love - a love that compels you to seize every morsel before it all slips away like grains of sand.

People like me only find their way to church when duty demands it. Yet, I find a certain solace within that sacred space. The ancient, comforting aroma of old wood, the creak of well-worn floors, the gentle caress of a light draft mingling with echoing hymns, heartfelt speeches, and collective responses.

The hello is just as important as the goodbye. His eyes had gleamed the most arresting blue - pale and almost ethereal in the center, deep and nearly black along the rim. In them, he first saw the raw, naked panic etched across my face - a creature ensnared, unpredictable, and desperately ready to fight for survival. He cherished that fierce spirit until his love for me took root. He loved me, or so I believed - a naive notion, a fleeting dream. Just the mere vision of him had once been enough to warm me from within. He had caught my attention, then my curiosity, then my heart. And when he died, he took them all with him as well.

Before the funeral, I am torn, unable to decide whether I dread to see the living or the dead more. But now, as I find myself trapped in yet another conversation I wish to avoid, comforting family and friends as much as my broken heart can. I cannot bear the thought of visiting my husband before they lower him into the earth.

I cannot stomach the stillness of his body, nor endure being denied even the consolation of his gaze.

My eyes wander across the room until they catch on an icy blonde hallowed by the light of the afternoon sun, leaning in the arched doorway. Behind dark, round glasses, her gaze is obscured, yet I sense her assessment - observing and dissecting me with calculated precision. She is here, yet not truly present, absorbed in her own distractions. And can I blame her? While I may grieve my husband, she lost her little brother. Am I a masochist for seeking her out, for exposing myself in her scrutinizing presence once again?

When I attempt to meet her gaze, it swiftly darts away, avoiding mine as she fixes her eyes on something beyond. The air inside grows increasingly stifled, and I struggle to take in a deep breath. Air. Fresh air, and a smoke, that’s what I need.

There are moments when it feels as though my breath hinges solely on his presence. And now he is gone. I draw in an unsteady, shaky breath; the acrid taste abrasively grazes my raw throat, but I welcome it. I am not yet prepared to see him again. I exhale sharply, anger coiling within me rather than fear.

His sister follows me out. I don’t need to turn around to know. With a resigned gesture, I begin peeling the dried skin around my nails and turn to speak to her, “I think my house is haunted.”

With slender, red-tipped nails, Sonia hands me a couple of sour straw candies moments after I put out the smoldering vice. Her reply is the typical mix of poetic and unhelpful. “Places aren’t haunted. People are haunted.”

My tongue burns, raw from the sour tang that lingers like a bitter aftertaste. The smoke intensifies the sting, but I barely care. The resilient chew of sour straws reminds me of him, and the tart sugar soothes my frayed nerves. But I can’t shake the sense of something else - someone else - watching me from the corners of the room. The shadows flicker unnaturally, stretching and twisting when they shouldn’t.

Sonia draws my attention back to her. "What you have survived matters. How you survive holds the secrets to how to heal."

There’s a coldness seeping from the floorboards, crawling up my legs, until it wraps around my chest and squeezes.

"When I said, ‘let's meet for coffee,’ I never imagined it will be at a funeral." The soft, trembling voice of my cousin snaps me out of my spiraling thoughts. I turn to find her eyes glistening with tears and wide with concern.

Before I can even form a coherent sentence, she envelops me in a tender yet crushing embrace.

"Eventually, I'll need to breathe, Mari," I murmur, my words muffled against the softness of her shoulder.

She slowly releases me with a gentle smile, murmuring apologetically, "Sorry."

My cousin is merely the first in a long, supportive line of those who have come to comfort me. I arrived a few minutes ahead of the service, though now I curse my own short-sightedness. An agonizing hour stretches between the solemn service and the burial itself.

I would never speak ill of my husband, especially at a time like this, yet his memory leaves me grasping for words and testing the very limits of my patience.

Just as I feel myself drowning amidst a sea of familiar faces and tear-streaked condolences, the torrent of emotion eases, and I find refuge in a quiet corner. I withdraw my phone and pretend to be occupied, a flimsy excuse to ward off the inevitable interactions until the burial is over.

"My condolences," comes a low, somber voice behind me, making my shoulders tense.

Though my patience is rapidly diminishing, I refuse to dishonor him by departing too hastily, but we all have our breaking points. "I'm here to bury my husband, not to praise him," I grumble, immediately regretting my choice of words.

When I finally lift my gaze, a fresh wave of dread sinks even deeper in my stomach. I crane my neck to face the man we have all gathered to grieve. I blink once, then twice, sure that my eyes are deceiving me.

"Well then, let's bury him," he says with a soft smile that seems to hold both resignation and gentle encouragement.

Glancing around the room, no one else seems to see the man before me, but I know I am not mistaken. My husband, alive, with his hand outstretched, waiting for mine. Waiting to lead me to his graveside. A sick pain twists in my stomach, and I turn away before I can scream.

The burial stretches on, day fading into a somber sunset. I find myself too fragile to face him again, at least, not yet. I wait until they have all left, his mother and mine. Until there are no more cousins or sisters or friends. Only then do I step towards the freshly packed earth.

I should be afraid when I hear his voice behind me, but I am not.

“This is for the best, my love.” His breath is warm as it brushes the top of my ear, and I shiver involuntarily. The sensation should be impossible. He should be cold, buried beneath the earth, but he is here. He is here, and the warmth of his voice, of his presence, is unmistakable.

When I turn to see him, he is as breathtaking as the night we met. His face held strong sharp angles and a wicked smile that he wore even now.

He shakes his head slowly. “I have died so that I might live for something beyond myself. It was gruesome: gnashing teeth, tearing sinew, my heart rent asunder by pain and fear, mingled with a twisted, almost sweet release. I suppose I am better now, made whole, even if I remain nothing more than tangled ribbons of shredded flesh. I am, in truth, no longer myself. The man you knew has died.”

My voice trembles as I ask, “do you really think this is better?”

He leans in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t you?”