The Weight of Unfinished Goodbye's

John’s eyes hovered over the Scrabble game board on a table in the family room. The board with game pieces still on the board and game letters still leaning in their cradles on two sides of the board. Nothing has moved or been touched for over a year. The two chairs, one on each side are empty and look strangely lonely. John’s mind is not on playing the game through; it is with her. He looked at the empty lonely chair where she would sit and was now quiet. He remembers her laughter at his feeble attempts at trying to structure a word out of the pieces in front of him. John did not possess a strong vocabulary and was weak in the area of spelling. His wife on the other hand was an outright genius in the fine art of spelling and the use of words correctly. They would spend hours playing the game, John was not particularly fond of the game, but his wife loved it and her laughter and teasing always made him smile. Now the table sits to the side of the room, quiet. He misses her laughter. He has not touched the board or game pieces since the last time they played it. He could almost smell the faint scent of her Sun-Ripened Raspberry perfume, feel the warmth of her hand on his as she explained that it was not how to spell hydrated, and he thought he was going to finally win a game for once.

John had tried to fill the void in his life by starting a couple of new hobbies, but they only filled the time, not his heart. He tried to date a couple of times, but both were a disaster. Between the overwhelming nervousness and anxiety, he came across as a buffoon. He had no idea how he was supposed to act, dating seemed to have changed so dramatically since the last time he dated which turned out to be the woman he married, thirty-five years earlier.

The house was now an empty museum of memories, every room a stark reminder of the life they shared. Framed photos of the many trips they shared. A photo of a summertime trip to Lake Mead that reminded him of the boat they rented and the secluded cove they found, where she, a person who had never skinny dipped in her life stood up in the boat to his amazement, stripped, and dove into the refreshing cool waters.

Although he had washed the sheets on the bed many times the faint scent of her perfume reminded him every night of the love lost, the struggle to let her go. On the nightstand next to her side of the bed still sat a book with a bookmark shaped like a butterfly stuck between the pages, a romance of course, her favorite. It was the last book she was reading before the devilish cancer took her life. Now the story was unfinished, much like their own tale.

The silence that permeated the house was deafening, punctuated only by the tick of a grandfather clock she had inherited from her mother and now will go to their daughter to carry on. The steady beat of the clock was now a reminder of counting out the seconds of his new, solitary existence.

With a heavy sigh, John went to the shared home office. This room was their sanctuary, a place where each of them could come, close the door, and work in silence. John often brought home reports from work that needed to be finished. His wife as an accountant would often work at home from there. It was a room she was proud of since she decorated it herself. The one wall was lined with many family photos. There was a large desk that could only be brought in after the large picture window in the outside wall was removed. It was also a room where they exchanged a few words of anger over the occasional issues of life that materialize in a couple's close existence. Those poorly chosen words seemed so petty to John now, so distant, so worthless, the lost minutes arguing over a household bill. Looking back now he realized she was right he was trying to air-condition the whole neighborhood when he left a window or door open on a hot day.

All these things, the board game, the book on the nightstand, the photos, the memories he simply could not let go of her. It was time to seek some help. He picked up the phone, his hands nervously trembling slightly as he dialed the number for a grief counselor that a family member had recommended. He had to come to terms with his grief and he couldn’t do it alone. 

As John entered the therapist's office, he noticed how quiet it was except for the faint low volume of classical music playing through the waiting room speakers. The walls were painted beige and brown, no doubt to give the room a soft cool calm feeling. The couch was soft, the lighting warm, and the air was thick with the scent of calming essential oils. He sat quietly but nervously; his anxiety was rising, and his right knee began to shake slightly. Talking to a stranger about his grief of losing his wife was at the moment not appealing to him. He wondered how this would help him let go of someone he loved so much. He seriously considered standing up and walking out, when a very well-dressed woman walked into the room.

“John?” she held out her hand as she approached him, “So good to meet you, I am Dr. Patricia Moore we spoke on the phone. Won’t you please come in?”

He followed her into her office. John noticed her calm demeanor and welcomed her soft voice. His anxiety was diminishing, at least for the moment. John has never been very good at sharing his emotions with people he did not know, so his nervousness still lingered.

The session began and Dr. Moore listened with practiced empathy, scribbling notes on her pad that John found both comforting and disconcerting. He could not help but wonder what she could be writing down. John spoke of the mundane moments, the treasure trove of lost memories: the way she moved and hummed in the kitchen making their favorite meals. John reminisced about the way her hair waved in the breeze when they were out for walks and her compassion for others. The more John spoke the nervousness slowly faded. Dr. Moore’s soft voice was soothing when she asked questions, she made him feel relaxed, his grief was important to her; At least that is how she made him feel.

Once John left her office, he started having doubts about sharing his feelings with someone he just met. He realized that was her job, but that didn’t make him feel any better. Letting go of someone he loved so much was hard if not impossible. Then John had an epiphany, perhaps he was not supposed to let go. Perhaps his next chapter in life was to move on alone and become one for himself. Hold her memories close, learn to talk to her, and have daily conversations in his mind. Try to hold on to some resemblances of normal life. But life was nowhere close to normal anymore. He just gets up in the morning and goes through the motions of the day without much thought except for her.

He arrives home, goes into an eerily quiet house, sits on the couch with his face in his hands, and sobs.

A few weeks later one morning something peculiar happened. John woke to the sounds of a bird singing outside the bedroom window. He found it strange because he could not recall hearing birds singing outside the window. He lay there listening to the bird's melody like it was singing to him, a private concert. As he listened, he began to feel an emotion he hadn’t felt in a long time: hope.

Stepping to the window John peeked outside. He spotted a lone Robin perched on the branch of the large tree in the backyard. Odd, he thought, Robins was his wife's favorite bird. He watched as the robin chirped away without a care in the world. It felt like a message, perhaps a gentle nudge like his wife was speaking to him. Calling to him, it was time to live again. The Robin’s song seemed to grow louder, more insistent, “I’m here sweetheart, it’s okay to let go.”