Kareyn Hellmann, Senior, Strategic Communication, Creative Writing Minor, Paris, Texas
Twenty-seven years of watching her shadow dance across the walls, twirling in and out of contact with his own. Twenty-seven years of watching her stare out the window, brooding on the color of the sky – always the color and shape of the sky. Twenty-seven years of placing flowers in her hair, daisies and daffodils, Queen Anne’s Lace and Black Eyed Susans. Twenty-seven years of biking with her six times around the neighborhood as dusk fell, her laughing in the same nasally way she always did, throwing her hair back just to stare at the sun as she pedaled. Twenty-seven years of memories, good and bad. Walking her through the highest highs and the lowest lows, beside her in every way.
Five years of misery, breaking out into shouts over the smallest of things. Five years of distance, hiding from one another, sleeping in different beds with different people. Five years of watching her come home with black eyes and bruises and doing nothing, turning his face away and saying it wasn’t his problem to solve. Five years of their only child begging them to get a divorce every time he came over, telling them it had gone too far – that they weren’t the same as when he was there.
Then three years of loneliness, laying in deserted fields in the middle of nowhere, picking himself back up and learning to live alone again. Sitting singly on empty beaches and watching even the most hideous of seagulls find a mate, sing their songs together. Three years of picking flowers but having no one to whom he could give them. Three years of watching the rain fall without stealing a kiss, without feeling another’s hand on his, without sharing an umbrella in cold Idaho streets. Three years of living alone in a rundown cabin in the middle of the woods – a hermit not solely by choice.
Then after thirty-five years, she knocked. Not looking at him once, she fiddled with the Black-Eyed Susan in her hands, twirling it back and forth.
It’s the first one you gave me, she says. He takes it from her, fingers gently brushing hers, and examines the flower. He remembers the day he picked it for her, about a month into their courtship. She had blushed as he put in her hair, then carefully saved it and pressed it into her favorite book.
She peered up at him then, and for the first time in a while, he was overcome with tenderness at the sight of her bruises. He invited her inside, and she followed.
I can’t live alone, she admitted over coffee. I just can’t. And yeah, it’s hard, but it’s harder having nobody.
He didn’t intend to, but he reached out a hand and trailed it along the side of her face, outlining the yellow and purple. He wanted to kiss her, hold her hand, give her a flower unadorned by old memories. He did none of those things, lifting his touch.
So you came to me, he said, hating the callowness in his tone.
Thirty-two years, she said. And we threw it away.
You said you wanted to start over, he said.
So did you, she returned.
Well, what stopped you? he asked.
The two of them looked at each other, knowing the answer. Twenty-seven years of memories kept them up at night. Kept them from coming to terms with new love, new people, new places.
After coffee, he took her to the field behind his house, where rows of wildflowers bloomed. He plucked them, putting them in her hair. She laughed, that same nasally sound he had loved, then hated and now believed he could love again.
Later, they returned to his cabin, where he poured them each a glass of wine.
What’s his name? Why does he hurt you? he asked.
She grimaced, offering up information slowly, reluctantly. He pressed gently, reassuring her. Afterwards, he invited her to stay the night. She slept troubled until he curled in next to her, sweeping her hair away from her face and soothing her.
The next morning, he was making breakfast when she came out to see him, embarrassed.
He told her not to be, that she could stay forever if she wanted.
What if he comes after me? she asked.
He won’t, he said, yawning.
She believed him.