Moving On

"Are you coming tonight?"

They were the last words she spoke to me. Her voice was sincere, almost pleading. She wanted me to, I just couldn't. I had too much to do. I can recall the moment she stood before me. Her daring navy blue dress, low cut and enticing. Pearl necklace and earrings, dull in the pale light. Her hair, long with a natural curl that moved in the same way as her body. Her smile quickly disappeared when I told her that work would keep me home. I sensed her aura shift, she was dissatisfied with my response. The smile she had worn since I've known her shifted slightly, and though she masked her disappointment well, I saw through her disguise. She was hurt. I felt a twinge of sadness, yet I was on a timeline, and work must take priority. Such was my mindset that I didn't hear her leave. I never got to say goodbye, nor did I get to kiss her one last time. 

Those that knew us often commented on how different we were. Chalk and cheese was a phrase that had been used to describe us, indeed some have even dared to suggest we were the ‘odd couple.’ She was elegant, yet not so refined as to be snobbish or flippant. She walked with grace and her movements were fluid and temporal. Her personality was light and social. Some would, and many did, say she was an extrovert. While I appeared the opposite. I was reserved, yet resolute and determined. I preferred quiet evenings in, a good book, and silence. I thrived in solace, yet was awkward in the company of others. However, what appears to be the company of strangers is but a dutiful and significant reminder of the complexities of personality. We were such a couple. As individuals easily defined, yet together much more elusive.  

There are times when I find myself escaping a memory, only to be trapped by another. I try to capture them in color, but I struggle to envision her as I imagined. She was as beautiful as falling snow caressing the sky as it fell gently, moving with grace and silent determination. She was as soothing as an evening rain on a hot tin roof. As joyous as a child's laughter. There are no colors that could paint her masterpiece. Her form, a nuance of yesterday and tomorrow. Her touch, electric, and profound. Her intellect was mystifying. Her sense of humour, bland yet endearing. Her laughter was infectious. There was a time when I thought that if I could hold her one more time, I would never let her go. Oh, as a gentle breeze can stir the spirit, a memory can move the heart. The pale reference of her qualities fade like the setting sun, in a discordant yet glorious, archipelago of light. I have whispered my apologies to the wind, but the wind fades and moves, like a restless spirit.  

I am moved to reconsider the nature of my existence, and the burden of guilt that weighs heavy. I have reasoned, I don’t know why, that it is light that gives form to darkness. She was the light, and my life, since her passing has been cast with shadows of regret, and shame. The restlessness I feel is tempered by a vague oath. It was one sworn in the innocence of love, released by the cruel hand of fate. It was uttered in ignorance, yet I have kept my vow. I have ‘moved on.’ I have remarried, and have experienced the majesty of fatherhood. I have not let her death define me. That is what I promised, yet though it appears as if I have upheld the oath, I know I have failed. Her death did define me. I changed. 

I have embraced life with an inherent dignity of self-worth and purpose. I have changed my perspective on the limitations of time, and have rewritten my social code. I have shed the burden of timidity and adopted a utilitarian approach to the exploration of self. I have bridged the fear of rejection, swam the tumultuous rivers of doubt, climbed the trepacious mountains of expectation, and subdued the insidious and intrepid wisps of arbitrary obligation. Life is, for me, now a sunset. I absorb the scattered hue that dances across the sky, and yields me unable to defend myself against the beauty of simplicity. 

When the sun dawns tomorrow, may light find its way across the jagged mountain peak, creep across the valley floor, and skip across the rivers that course their way through the earth. The temperate forest that shields us from the world will wake. The sounds of life, high and low, animal, and human, stir with the routine of necessity. As the day ages, birds will sing, the ax will fall, children will laugh and smoke will rise lazily from the chimney and disappear into a clean sky. Meanwhile, she can be found, for she is no secret. She is a spectre of beauty. Complete in her solitary nature. She is the earth from which the tree grows. The water that gives hope to life, my life. Her name is Abigail. She has been described as awkward and uncomfortable. Pale and frail. Chalk and cheese. I turn my face to the wind, and call out her name. Fate has taken from me the only thing I thought I loved. Love through wise eyes has new meaning. I shall spare you the sentimental requiem of the damned. The sepulchral cry that emanates from my mouth is not a plea to the fallen, but to her, Abigail.

If I have learned from my experiences, it is this, there is an end to all things. Time does not hold itself together, forever. The past shapes, yet doesn't define us. Loyalty is a burden and promises are a curse. What's worse than imagining an end without a beginning? I thought I would never love again, but I was wrong. I thought I loved her then, but I know, through the intangible and concrete union of spirit and humanity that love is embedded in the eyes of the artist. Are we not artists? Every single one of us interprets, and creates. Thus said, love is a creation. If we choose not to create, do we choose not to love?