The Cruelest Month

After the explosion, time ceased to be linear. It collapsed on itself, pulling and forcing everything into a shifting nothingness. The acceptance of time in its original, primordial flow was never questioned. The laid-out sequence, the logical plan of that forward momentum, was an unconscious choice, but perhaps choices are driven by force.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

There was comfort in its predictability, one that no longer exists. I hunker down in the past only leaving the confines of my bedroom when it is necessary, when it becomes an absolute requirement for semblance of normal living, like when I need to eat or take a shower. Stepping into the living room, kitchen, or bathroom, I find myself either in a present world where nothing makes sense, or even worse, a future that is disjointed, chaotic, and lacking discernibility.

There are loops and time slides that bounce between people, places, and events with such ferocity that my head feels like it will implode. Sometimes, all I want is to be given grace for having survived that initial paroxysm, to be able to understand myself and my relation to things again. There is an intrinsic desire to be part of an ebb and flow, but I am transfixed. The immobility is comfortably futile.

Each doorway, leading to another room, is the portal that scurries me to the next reality. Most days you will find me anchored to my bed, rocking back and forth as tears fall against the pale skin of my leg, a recognizable cadence.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

In this room, I can relive the former things that define me.

I can see your smile again for the first time.

Tick.

I re-watch the playful banter that formed the basis of our friendship and the flirtatious entreaties that followed.

Tock.

I linger in our jokes, the fullness of the laughter that flowed between us with ease. The intensity of your laugh washes over me like the sun, a brightness that imprisons me in its warm affection. With the series of events that occurred after the explosion, I have been cast into eternal darkness, and I don’t know if the sun or your smile is real. Is it? Was it?

Tick. Tock.

I watch the sun set on our inhibitions. Taking me to the heights of ecstasy with your mouth and your strong hands, I savor the way your skin feels pressed into mine. I know those moments were real. I can still feel you. Your scent lingers in front of me like the open air of the sea, a soulful yearning of something just within grasp. I feign to touch you, my fingers arching toward the promise stolen by the ocean breeze.

Tick, tick, tick…

You complained of pain in your abdomen, dragging your dizzy, unbalanced carcass through each exasperated motion. Imploring you to see a doctor, but knowing I had no claim to spur you to action, I waited. I accepted my fate. We were simply friends. I wanted our friendship to be enough.

TOCK.

And then the universe exploded.

TTIICCKK^^^^TTTOOCCKK

I am confronted with the future state when I’m forced to go to the bathroom, which is more often than one would guess. When showering or brushing my teeth, I tiptoe through these insights, timid and nervous about what is happening, unsure of the skin I inhabit. A coldness sweeps over me that makes me shudder.

I hear the hymns swelling high above the stained-glass windows, the musty odor of the church off-putting in its wretched hold. I choke the sobs downward, gripping the edges of the pew, driving my fingers into the cushion. It is safest to keep my eyes closed as long as possible to delay the inevitable discovery. Someone hands me a tissue to dab the tears that race porous black streaks down my cheeks. I exit the bathroom with a rushing, driving hurt.

Tock_tock_tock_tock_tock.

The living room supplants me firmly in the present, a voided aching and helplessness. We are talking on the phone, trying our best to be lighthearted, skirting around the ugliness of the diagnosis.

“It’s not my time,” he whispers in my ear, “Don’t view this situation as something you are responsible for, Margaret.”

I wilt when he says my name, my heart bending in the enunciation. His voice, with its rooted, Southern accent, touches me in places that only he can reach.

“I do blame myself. I should have urged you to go to the doctor sooner. I mean, I tried, but I didn’t want to be overbearing.” I stop mid-thought.

The hollowness of my inaction carves out the part of me that is breathing.

“No,” he insists, “Neither of us are to blame. It is pure randomness disguised as purpose. It’s an ill-fated destiny, and I’ll get through it. I’ll be okay.” A pause, and then with determination he offers, “We’ll be okay.”

I muffle my heartache, pretending to buy into his optimism, allowing myself to relax into the reassurance. I can feel our lives beating in sync, moving toward a unified heartbeat.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…

My trips outside this house are few. Driving to the grocery store or passing by the office, I find the streets are littered with ashen debris. I swerve to avoid collisions. Everything is blunted in greys and browns. A stagnant monotone sleeps beside the darkness, assailing me with its lack of substance. There are no doors to pass through and I accelerate faster through this area where time does not exist. There is nothing tangible to hold me in a clawed grasp. I imagine that this is what hell feels like, an endless, running emptiness. Perhaps, I am in heaven. The idea causes me to smirk.

The windows of the buildings have been shattered and the walls collapsed. Nothing but the heap of a forgotten life persists in the brokenness. It is difficult to maneuver these familiar streets that are strewn with trash, newspapers from a bygone day, remnants of commerce, tattered articles of fabric, and bits and pieces of irrelevant items. They block me from reaching something. I want to reach it, and I can hear myself yelling and screaming at nothing and no one. A piercing light stabs at my thoughts. I strain as hard as I can, desiring to catapult past this suffering. Relief sulks beyond my grasp, unfettered and mocking. It holds me in its cold stare. Unconsciously, I look down at my wristwatch, the second hand gliding a circular path to nowhere, playing the victim to a repeating loop. It has lost all meaning, this trite and tired path. I am exhausted.

Within this world that has been slammed out of orbit, I cannot find anyone, not a solitary soul to initiate a connection. I am alone. I cautiously guide my car through the mess scattered on the roads, relieved when I pull into the driveway with my tires intact. I park neatly in my spot and wait listlessly for an omen, a sign, a remembrance that will propel me toward anything akin to a natural order. I dread walking into the quiet house, not knowing if I want to tackle the present or the future in order to get to the past.

Mulling over the possibilities, I say aloud to the starless night, “I wonder if I can straddle the past and the future, one foot in the bedroom and one in the bathroom, creating an equilibrium where I can always be with you?” The throb hits me directly in my temple, and I grieve for not hearing an answer.

The best option I have is to sprint through the side door leading into the kitchen and make a brief stop in the bathroom before throwing myself back into the limitations of the bedroom. The hopscotch between spheres assaults my senses, and I drift between wrecked conversations.

In the kitchen –

“How did chemo go today?” I nimbly ask.

He falters with his words, “I’m taking a beating this week.”

He recovers his fortitude and looks at me with an intent keenness as if he is trying to record my visage, the singular features tucked away in his mind’s eye.

Tickkkkkkkkkkkkkk

In the bathroom -

The church bells drone a bittersweet melody, a dissonant clanging. I rue everything about this finality. I gaze down at his lifeless face in the casket. I don’t want to remember him this way.

Averting my glance, I plead to him, to the gods, “Where are you, David? What time is it? How did this happen?”

A beckoning silence ensues.

Tockkkkkkkkkkkkkk

Amidst a mad flailing of blankets and sheets, I drown in bed, trapped in fitful attempts to hold onto the past. My mind pivots relentlessly to the first time I saw his handsome figure standing on the street corner. There is an inkling that I can go on forever.

Our eyes meet in that perfect, blissful moment, and he says, “You look lost. May I give you directions? Help you find your way?”

Knowing that I don’t want to be anywhere but here under his gaze, I respond with brazen charm, “No, I have found where I am going.”

…kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk

The grandfather clock, stationed in its solemnity outside the doorway of my bedroom, presides over the still night. Focusing on the swinging pendulum, I let it take me to the recesses of slumber, a gentle sleep that will provide renewal if I am lucky. I fear my luck has expired. I lay in bed, moving softly to the tempo, hoping the physical rhythm will jump-start the conventions of time. I lull myself to the other side, a desperation to rest. In the dreams that haunt my conscience, a doorbell rings, a rooster crows, and the moon topples me between currents. I am forever suspended within the flickering fog, between the words said and unsaid.

When I awaken, I force my legs over the side of the bed. I shuffle to the window with my angst. I peek through the window blinds. The sunlight glares its fierce rage. I have not seen it for what feels like a lagged eternity, and I am forced to squint. The neighborhood is cloaked in garbage, a filthy clutter of nominal objects. Is that a bird chirping? I raise my window frantically, my heart fluttering at the thought of life, something other than my weighted existence. I sink into the chair next to the window, as the heaviness that has courted my movements lifts. With the bird’s musical refrain, I realize that I will be able to adapt to a new pulse, one that is different and devoid of your voice, but a beat that my spirit can follow.

It whispers and swells, a light touch as passing as the spring wind.

“Follow me, please, follow me.”

Kcit-kcot-kcit-kcot…Kcit-kcot-kcit-kcot…Kcit-kcot-kcit-kcot…