Longing For the Crickets

I had the pleasure of seeing Linda only on her birthday. I guess that day holds a special energy for those it involves. It was always a special time for both of us - right up until the day I died. As with every year, we started the day off at Lake Sterling, tucked away in a grove of pines north of Toronto where some lakes up there were as clear as glass. One could see all the way to the bottom with the right light, and, the sunrise? Oh, the sunrise reflected on the lake like God’s forge heating up to fashion a sword of unimaginable beauty.

But that sword still wouldn’t compare to the beauty of my Linda. Long, curly chestnut hair draped over her shoulders down to the middle of her back. Eyes bluer than the midday sky sparkled like ripples upon Lake Sterling. And my heart always skipped a beat when she smiled, which wasn’t a reflection of amusement or contentment, but a pure, unadulterated love that could never be broken.

I would talk to her throughout the day. I don’t know if she heard me or not, but, just having her near me, I felt there was still a connection between us. Maybe talking made it more real to me or something. I told her I missed her and how much I loved her. I recited our favorite Pablo Neruda poems that I knew she enjoyed. I hoped she heard me. I wished she heard me. There was so much I still wanted to say to her.

By the afternoon, I usually took a break from talking so much. Her eyes, though still bright and caring, betrayed her face with signs of fatigue. Circles, ever so slightly dark, appeared below each eye and she blinked slowly, fighting to stay awake. When I noticed her lethargy settling in, we would sit in silence until late afternoon. How I longed to hold her again. To feel her breath on my neck. To seize her hand in mine and never, ever let go. Never again.

As nightfall approached, I gestured to implore her to go inside with me so we could end our day by the fire. But she always shook her head ‘no.’ She could never resist the symphony of crickets that serenaded us by the lake. Even on the last day we spent together as a living couple, she insisted we stay outside, deep into the night and just… listen. So we did on that day and on every one of her birthdays we met thereafter.

She was right about the crickets, too. Their pervasive song could only be described as ‘surreal.’ When you let your mind wander and just drift along the fabric of the sounds that can only be heard at night, you discover a rhythm, a pulse that takes you high up into the sky, beyond yourself.

I closed my eyes and rode that cadence until a memory took shape in my thoughts. I was taken back to the day before our last day together. Cold fluorescents buzzed above us, while another rhythm, that of a heart monitor, kept time at around seventy-five beats per minute. Linda’s hand squeezed mine as hot tears streamed down our cheeks. We had just been told that nothing more could be done and were given the option of going home or going to hospice. We both knew either choice would end the same, and we sat in silence. I hoped I could stop time at that moment if I did not speak, if I did not move.

“Let’s go to the lake,” Linda finally said. My attempt at halting the clock disappeared when I looked up into her eyes. They were sad, but still sparkled with an assurance.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “It might… hurt.” Fear prevented me from fully expressing the dread I felt at the decision. My chest ached from worry, as if a giant stepped on my torso with an enormous foot. I feared for her pain as well as my own. 

“We’ll spend the whole day there, Gene,” my wife said. “Sunrise to moonrise. And sunrise again. We can hear the crickets, Gene. The crickets!” She produced that smile again, and, though that giant foot crushed my heart, it still leapt when she did. 

“Sure,” I replied. “The crickets. But I want to sit by the fire, too. I don’t want us to get cold.” I meant I didn’t want her to get cold, but she never liked to be coddled. 

Just sitting there… listening… being with each other… I couldn’t imagine life getting any better. Hours passed effortlessly. I didn’t even feel cold any more. Our bond was an all-consuming fire that transcended the need for warmth, for comfort. Soon, however, I knew our day would end, as it always did on her birthday, and we would have to part ways again.

I’ve been told the grief would get easier over time. It should have passed from a searing, empty pain at the bottom of my heart to this dull ache that was always there, but not debilitating. But not for me. I experienced grief so intensely that sometimes, it feels like I can't breathe.

Saying good-bye was always the hardest. But at least on her birthdays, I didn’t have to see the light drift from her eyes.

The cancer spread quickly. What started as the occasional upset stomach turned into an aggressive parasitic demon that ate its ways through Linda’s insides with reckless abandon. When the growths were finally discovered, it was too late. We weren’t even given the option to fight it. So we didn’t. 

It’s dark now. Linda’s apparition has laid her head on my lap with a weightless, ethereal head of semi-transparent, chestnut hair. She did this just as it happened that night she left this world. I stroked her hair that night, knowing she had already passed, but not ready to give up having her close to me. Not yet. Just a few more minutes. A few more seconds. Please, God, just give me an extra moment with her so I could tell her I loved her one more time.

That was twelve years ago. Twelve years ago I lost my best friend. Twelve years ago, though my body lived, I died in my heart. And, at the end of the twelfth time upon her visit since her death, Linda disappeared. And I sat with an empty lap and a face-full of tears that reflected the moonlight off the waters of Lake Sterling. 

But hope propelled me forward in the coming days, for I knew that her birthday would come again. And Linda would come visit me as well. And we would spend the day together from sunrise to moonrise. And we would hear the crickets. The crickets, Gene. The crickets.