Until We Meet Again

By Rhonda Fitzgerald-Hunter

            I hear my alarm go off, interrupting my dream-filled sleep.  I remind myself to change it to something less annoying.  I already do not want to wake up to the nightmare that has become my reality.  I just want to lay in this bed, holding his pillow, and smelling the remnants of his scent – baby oil and baby powder.  Today is the last day I will see his handsome face.  I will miss his dimples, warm brown eyes, and salt and pepper hair he finally embraced.

            I hear my son and his girlfriend rustling around in the kitchen.  I am guessing they are preparing breakfast for me.  Ever since the fateful day that I received the worst telephone call in my life, my son has been trying to take care of me.  Each day he attempts to feed me breakfast and cooks elaborate dinners in the hope that I will eat.  I know he is worried about me.  If I am not making funeral arrangements, I am in this bed holding my husband’s pillow and silently crying so my son doesn’t hear me.  At 16, James has become the man of the house. 

            I force myself into the shower.  My feet feel like cement blocks dragging along the cold tiled floor.  I run the water so hot, the steam fills the bathroom and makes it hard to breathe.  I turn the temperature down a notch before entering so I don’t scald my skin.  I take this moment to open the waterfall I have been holding back.  The sound of the shower running masks the sound of my sobbing.  My chest racks with force, sore from three days of uncontrollable tears.  My heart feels like it has been shredded by a cheese grater, can barely catch a breath with the lump blocking my throat, and my eyes burn as if I have soap in my eyes.  How am I going to get through this day?

            I join James and Chloe in the kitchen for breakfast, lured by the smell of bacon.  They are so quiet as they watch me eat with solemn eyes.  I can feel their eyes glued to my face as I try to eat a piece of bacon, two bites of scrambled egg, and a half slice of buttered toast with my favorite raspberry jelly.  It’s probably more than I have eaten in the past three days.  I can hear their bated breaths as they watch me eat each bite; it is nerve-racking.  To keep them from worrying I ask, “Are you ready to go?  We don’t want to be late.”  Everyone jumps into action clearing the table and putting the dishes in the dishwasher.  One last glimpse to ensure we have everything before leaving the house, and we walk out the door.

            I try not to think of what we are about to do.  Instead, I focus on the drive so we can arrive in one piece.  The last thing I need to do is fight back tears causing blurred vision which could cause an accident.  I am carrying a precious load, my son.  We comment on the beautiful Spring weather we were blessed with today.  The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and the birds are chirping away.

            As we arrive at the church, I must stifle a chuckle.  My son is intrigued and asks what is so funny.  “Here we are Catholic, my husband was Baptist, and we are at his brother’s Lutheran church.  Why is it that people think one religion is better than the next?  Ultimately, we all die, and it doesn’t matter anymore.”

            We park the car and walk slowly to the church.  I am filled with uncertainty and pull my son closer to me.  We are searching for familiar faces in the sea of people.  I am shocked by the number in attendance, especially on a weekday.  All I see are colors everywhere, flowers, clothes, shoes.  My nose detects the myriad of perfumes and cologne that aggravate my allergies.  My senses are overwhelmed, and panic starts to rise in my chest.  I am feeling suffocated, my vision is blurring from the tears forming in my eyes.  Like a deer in headlights, I want to run.  I asked my son to help me find a bathroom so I can pull myself together.

            Pushing open the bathroom door with full force, letting the door hit the wall, I practically ran into the bathroom to escape the weight of everyone’s stares.  I regret having to leave my son with his girlfriend at the door.  I wish I could take them both into the bathroom with me.  I stand in the bathroom mirror trying to steady my breathing.  My heart is beating so fast, it feels like it is going to jump out of my chest.  My hands are gripped to the sink to steady me, I close my eyes and try to gather my resolve. I tell myself, “Keep it together for the sake of James.  He doesn’t want to see you hurting.  He is already battling with his own mixed feelings about losing his stepfather.”  I open my eyes and appreciate the quiet space.  The mirror is gilded in gold trim and the marble cream sink hosts vases with pink and white flowers which appear to be roses and carnations with a touch of baby’s breath.  The lighting is soft and calming.

            I gaze into the mirror and hardly recognize myself.  My once bright twinkling green eyes are now blank, lifeless.  My tear-stained face is wrought with grief and appears to have aged ten years.  The so-called waterproof eyeliner is smeared from the burning hot tears.  I grab tissues and start cleaning up the mess on my face.  At least I had enough sense to think ahead and put makeup in my purse just in case I needed to do a makeup repair.  I straighten my black dress to smooth my wind-blown hair and attempt to square my shoulders.

            I do not want to leave the quiet confines of the bathroom.  I am not only dreading facing the nameless faces but the proceedings ahead, I am also not prepared to see my husband’s face for the last time.  It’s as if the longer I put it off, the more I don’t have to say farewell.  Time ticks by; there are no clocks in this sanctuary.  I must have disappeared for a long time as a search party was sent to find me.  A familiar face enters, it is my best friend since the second grade.  She is a sister to me and probably knows me better than I know myself.  I am glad to see her face.  She is dressed in a simple black dress that goes to her knees and sensible shoes for standing for long periods.  Her long brown hair is pulled back in a barrette, sadness and worry on her face as she gazes upon me.

            She walks directly to me, arms opened wide, and embraces me.  She whispers in my ear, “I can’t imagine what you are going through.  I am so sorry you have to do this.”  I cling to her; I don’t want to let her go.  She has become my lifesaver in the wake of the storm.  She gives me words of encouragement and helps fix my appearance.  I straighten my shoulders, lift my head high, and hold her hand as I prepare to face the gathered crowd.

            I walk to my son, my arm in his as we walk down the aisle for one last moment with my husband.  We ignore the looks, and the quiet whispers of the people gathered.  Our eyes are fixed on the pearly white casket with the silver handles we carefully picked out for the love of my life.  As we get closer you can see him resting peacefully.  He is wearing a white buttoned-down cotton dress shirt, black slacks, and the silver chain with a cross I bought him for the Lil Wayne concert.  In the casket is a heart-shaped pillow with red-budded roses specially designed for him.  I noticed the casket flower spray isn’t present.  His brother was in charge of procuring them, and for some reason, it wasn’t there.  It doesn’t really matter.  Nothing matters anymore.

            I gaze upon my husband’s face.  You can see the dew forming.  I try not to think about the reason why; he is thawing in the heat of the church.  I place the eagle feather my cousin sent to me in the pocket of his shirt.  It is in honor of our Native American heritage.  I also put a silver dollar in his pocket to pay the ferryman.  I place my hand on top of his neatly folded, cold hands.  I lean down for one last kiss.  My heart feels like is being squeezed by a giant fist, and I can’t breathe.  My thoughts become irrational.  This man cannot sleep without me.  How is he going to sleep?

            I started to back away so others could have an opportunity to say their farewells.  As I turn to face the approaching crowd, I suddenly lose my resolve.  I try to stop them from approaching.  I yell, “I am not ready yet.”  I am not ready to leave him.  I am not ready to share the last moment with him.  I am not ready to say farewell.  I AM NOT READY!  My son and my best friend appear by my side and guide me to the pew.  I can no longer hold back the tears pouring from my eyes.  A box of tissues is placed in my lap.  There isn’t enough tissue in the world to stop my tears.

            Waves of people keep flowing to the casket.  I can’t see my husband and panic wells up in me.  I try to focus on the beauty of the church.  The intricate stained-glass windows with depictions of Mother Mary. The white granite statue of Jesus on the cross.  The wooden altar with an opened bible on top of it.  At any other time, I would have appreciated the beauty, but not today.  Today it is a symbol of loss, not comfort.

            The service begins and people walk up to share their stories.  I don’t hear any of the words.  Inside my head, all I hear is the sound of waves crashing on the rocks of a cliff.  I feel like I have shattered into a million pieces that will never be put together again.  All I can think about is how is my husband going to sleep without me.  He would always search the house for me because he needed to have me by his side to sleep.  Now there will be no rest for either of us.

            My son leans into me.  You can feel his body shake with tears.  I gently squeeze his hand and give him some tissues.  I turn to kiss him on his cheek and lightly tell him, “We will be o.k.  We have the memories, and each other.”             I watch as the casket is closed, sealing my husband from my view.  It feels as if my heart is being closed in the casket at the same time.  My chest is a vacant hole where my love once lay.  This is it; I will never see his face again.  I am left to face life without him.  I whisper, “Farewell, my love.  Until we meet again.