Handfuls

Hard ragged nails snagged on my silk. Someone grabbed at my elbow. It was his son. He asked, expected me to speak at the service. I could barely manage a smile and a sad embrace.

There’s nothing left to say. All the words in the world have been used up. Wrung out. Tossed away. Every old lie exhausted. Every lyric, love song, psalm and sermon spent.

The last time I saw him he was already dead if only in spirit. Twice divorced but still quite impeccably dressed. Seeing him lying there now, perhaps I had even purchased that tie. Yes it was definitely my style. Deep navy silk with small red and white somethings. She would have had him in green poly maybe with grapes. The blazer looked like one I bought him for his birthday a few years back. Single breasted gold buttons on a three season weight good navy wool gab. I would have bought him a bespoke fifteen hundred blazer but had to settle for the three hundred dollar version. His misplaced journalistic sensibilities would never let him wear such luxury. I did manage to spoil him with cashmere long socks but don't know if he kept up the habit.

How many more years now do I have to carry all the details? The dinners, which wines were drunk in what locations, the attire, the private jokes, the intimate smiles. He would reach for me touching hands and all the music. We recreated our own lyrical atmosphere no matter where we were. Of course the books, magazines, the newspapers we were reading separately and together, the topics of the day, the big story. Which of us took the best photo? The small but serious competitions. Will my memory ever let me rest, just to drop the weight of it all. The lovely heart, mind and body breaking beauty of it all.

We love so many people who slip in and out of our lives like golden birds or silvery eels. Flying, back stroking, fleeing, never to be heard from again. Some we thought we couldn't ever live without, how could we breathe, wake, survive if they left. 

But every morning is new. Suns come up, things grow, change and each day brings age and different circumstances to deal with. Errands, appointments, people that demand greetings, smiles for show.

Ours was a creampuff of a wedding. Frothy white and the cherry on top of our relationship. My dress a swishy wisp of ice silk georgette. Long sleeved, backless, pockets of course. Miles of creamy satin cloths topped with dozens of white roses. All of our favorite foods. Cheese from that little village in France where he proposed, decadent oozy chocolate cake from our special hideaway and the white wine flowing courtesy of the owner of the down city dive bar we met in. Just a few close friends and associates we thought would always be with us on this life journey.

Our parents were long gone. So no one gave us away although that was mostly the story we shared. Always getting left. Parents, beloved pets, friends, first loves, seconds. Until you lose count of the betrayals, the getting overs.

We'd have our ups, downs but mostly just a quiet intimacy of knowing we had to always be adult with one another. Relish every little kindness. Morning coffee just the way you'd like it. Sunday brunch with buddies and football. Pink flowers, picnics, creating our own lyrical atmosphere. Clutching hands wherever we were. An attempt to hang on? Never letting the drudgery of daily details intrude on our conversation. Some things are better left out. Mystery the aphrodisiac. Until.

Who could predict it. Seen it coming. He would suddenly be gone. Our fairytale did have an end. We didn’t live happily ever after.

She wasn’t very pretty, interesting or wealthy. But he didn’t have to be on, compete or even care very much. Easier I guess. Even the leaving.

We never had children, there was no time in our busy lives for simply a cat. Nothing to fight about. It was too soon to have settled somewhere or purchase our forever home.

They had a son, daughter, dog. All grown now, the dog long dead.

Then somehow we had managed to run into each other on a New York street corner, chatted, caught up. A quick bite with wine turned into a foolish three year affair. The confession of undying love, regrets for leaving a life that seemed on its way to importance. None of it relevant.

But we did travel like we’d always planned. Paris, Sardinia, St. Tropez. All of Spain, Portugal, most of Italy and France.  He was retired now and freed from the constraints of being a foreign affairs reporter and I gave up my beautiful food shop just to not miss a minute with him. I had never remarried but I’d created a beautiful lonely life.

He did insist on my meeting the children. His daughter instantly understood more than he would ever know and was not my fan. His son just wanted to hang out with us. He’d heard all the details of our earlier travelogue, seen the pictures. And now experiencing the smiles, the looks, his dad happy for the first time, reaching always for my hand, he understood.

But deception is the biggest killer. We couldn’t go back. Leave, divorce, remarry? It sounded ridiculous, and I couldn’t continue to be left. I wanted forever. And so it was over. Again. My choice this time. Still my regret. It wasn’t that I missed him, I missed who I was when I was with him. Happy, peaceful, kind, generous, open handed, beautiful, confident.

Now this other flower filled church occasion. Few cars in the parking lot. No one really left to bother with either of us. But I had dressed with the same care I took for our wedding. My finest black, pearls real of course and I did allow myself an exquisite large black hat to compensate for no longer being able to manage four inch heels.

The only other accoutrement, the two carat marquise shaped diamond he had place on my finger years ago. I had never removed it. My hands didn’t know how to move without it.

And to say goodbye now? Should I share our story, how sad and slightly shabby it all seems. I’ve been trying my whole life to pack away the memories of yesterday. Do I toss the pictures, letters, all the inanimate objects of life our hands hold so close to our heart? The little lovely things, experiences, smells, touches that make us human, who we are. How do I continue to wake up every morning wanting to accumulate more? But always I have the expectation of handfuls of blessings.

The organ music had subsided, his son nodded, my hand grasped the pew, I smiled and rose to speak.