Hues of Her

My sky shines with the colors of all the stars. The hues of rose red and bright bumblebee yellow falling through the cracks of the sun’s barriers. I see them crumble away to the ground where it coats my hands to the very pores of my skin. I feel the tinges of tangerine orange to tufts blue float beneath my surface, shining through the wounds left behind by surgeries not so long removed. The sensation of stitches still holding gashes in place sends shivers down my spent spine. I sit beside my lover, holding her hand with the same passion I held on our wedding day, a reminder of the vow of affection I made all those years ago. I remember the way her hair held so many shades of brown, flowing along the light breeze as our loved ones witnessed our holy matrimony. Yet now her hair only shows off the spectrum of gray and rough sensation it gives to my fidgeting fingers, a sign of the many years since that day still so vivid despite the passing of time. As I stare at her own scars and notches, I see her beauty as blinding as the setting sun, imprinting into my vision when I try to look away. Her eyes still shine with that same determination to thrive despite our many barriers built up by barred issues. We stood the test of time and found our way through the maze, but now find ourselves unwilling to leave its warm embrace.

As I’m watching, I dream of more time with her, and yet I know this has to be our last day together. I can feel my body weakening, taking down my ability to remember all the ways in which we were in love. The ways in which we held onto each other all throughout the night, surrounded by shadows of silver reflecting off the windchimes we hung up to add our own sound to the quiet. Those days when we would talk in circles about events we both attended, sharing new perspectives and ideas we’ve heard a thousand times before, holding every second like glistening glass, one slight away from flying off to our gentle gray tiles. 

All I should be thinking about right now is the pain growing inside of me, ascending upwards as myself will soon move. My death, as did my birth, has a due date, and it just so happens to be today. Yet all I can think of is how her face gazes upon mine with such careful affection. An affection I have nothing to earn. She has held my mind together while I unraveled hers out of sheer compulsion. My boorish and blunt attitude have made her upset more times than I can count, and yet, here she sits beside me despite my shortcomings. I shall soon be born again into stardust, scattered across the gardens we have so meticulously maintained, sacrificing our softness for blooming blossoms. I see the Dartmouth green stalks attached to flower blooms that will grow from my ashes, bringing her the last part of myself that I can give. I used to gather them with her guiding hand moving me through each moment. We would sway along with the wind for hours, floating through fields of flowers, chasing our never ending love for hours. I wish I hadn’t been so tough on their stems, clumsily pulling out all their roots as life does to me now. 

I wish I could have given her the world, but all I could afford were these few acres in the countryside, a long ways from which we grew up. I can trace my finger along the path of a map to show how far we’ve come, shying away from bustling cities and fairing instead for the loud quiet that we could love for eternity. The crickets singing above the hum of the night, crowding out the spaces where birds once sounded their song some hours prior. Listening to the last bustling creatures bumping around to find home as we once had to do when we were younger and less astute to the importance of stability. We used to move like broken records, running through the same grooves over and over until we finally broke loose and discovered that life is about grace. We found the grace in sitting still, saying nothing at all. We knew the grace of knowing when and who to call. All our lives we were entangled: on tree branches, in blankets, across the cold floors, and through the soft glimmering grass of the fiends. She always thought it was enough, and I know that at the end of the day, it was, but only for me. 

I remember in the week we found out that my life was nearing its end and we held onto one another and cried until at last we had to pry ourselves off of one another to find our new definition of love. It was turning gray, ashen and could crumble at the slightest touch. All we hoped for was one another. Yet somehow, I couldn’t provide that either. We learnt that our love going monotone didn’t mean that we had to forgo our weekly game nights or Christmas dinners. The only difference, it seemed, was that the colors were less vivid. We sit now, hand in hand, against the blooming essence of the universe surrounding our insignificant bodies. It’s the last day the sun will shine this bright, the crickets will be this loud. It’s the last day I get to experience much of anything at all. I hold her hand, feeling my breath hitch deep in my throat as my oxygen levels decline. I see tears well in her darkened eyes, swirled with hues of bright blue and green, a charming blend of the only world I hope to see. My thoughts of love echo into my vision as my eyes doze, leading me to the primrose we planted along in dozens of rows. Their petals lives are soon to come to a close, feathering the same surface I will soon lay down.

Yet, I most curiously notice that the spot in the sky I so traditionally stare at to try and contain the overwhelming beauty in front of me is moving in reverse. I feel my oxygen bubble up once again, through my tank and into my tubes. I feel our hands, solid atop the bench where we rest. I watch the overwhelming speed of time going back, faster and faster, till my sight can’t catch up. All those curious little thoughts of regret I so dutifully held back into the depths of my brain come bouncing out of hiding as I realize what has happened. I’m standing in front of a young woman as a young man. Her eyes holding that same shine with that determination to thrive. I’m getting to love her, all over again.