desiderium | m. o'hara

three

Miguel doesn't speak as he drives us through the midday rush of downtown Neuva York traffic. I keep my head turned to the window, unwilling and unable to perceive even just the blurry outline of him at the edge of my perception. I refuse to acknowledge his existent at all.

  The guilt rocks off of him in waves. I'm either choking on it or on my tears, but either way, I'm drowning. I'm fifty feet below the surface.

  It's two hours of painful silence until Miguel turns into barren farmland. We drive for another forty minutes before stopping outside a mountainside's forest that's too thick to drive through.

  I wipe my eyes and step out of the car. Miguel locks it, stuffs the keys into his jacket pocket, then leads the way into the woods.

  He'd picked a secluded spot at the edge of a glade that overlooks a valley. It's surrounded by pines and a few bunnies dart from the base of a tree opposite us. It's quiet, with no sounds other than the birds in the branches and the wind disturbing the leaves. At least he chose a pretty place.

  I stop in my tracks when I see the mound of disturbed earth. Miguel gives me space, holding back at the edge of the glade.

I force my feet forward. Beneath this soil, my husband rots. Beneath the rocks and dirt, he is being slowly stolen from me by nature. His hands of which I used to cherish, fertiliser. His smile of which I used to adore with kisses, sunken. He is my every good memory beneath the earth.

I wobble at the edge of his grave. I sink to my knees and bite my cheek until it bleeds. My sobs join the birds.

  His headstone is a pine tree, and carved into it is his name. Below that, in messy handwriting, husband and father.

  I pick up a sharp stone and, with shaky hands, carve the word beloved.

  "Mi vida," I whisper. The rock drops from my fingers and I press my hands on the dirt. My head bows, my tears fall onto his place of rest. "I'm so sorry. I- I should've been there for you. I should've told you that I loved you more. I should've cherished every second." My breath catches in my throat with a cry. "I didn't. Not enough. Not enough."

  I stay as long as I can, weeping beside the dirt of his grave. I would've stayed there forever if I could, I would've let the grass grow over me and let the worms make a home in my corpse, but I have a daughter that needs me. I shake off the the urge to be consumed by nature and stand.

  Miguel hasn't moved. He doesn't stare, either, standing off in the distance and watching the horizon. The privacy he granted me is a spit in the face. What worth is mercy now? He looks up when I approach on my way back to the car, red eyes finding mine, shadowed by inner conflict and guilt and worry. I turn my gaze away.

  "Let's go," I mutter darkly. He silently joins me, not saying a word.

The drive back is just as silent. Dirt cakes my nails. My heart is left behind, still sitting side-by-side with my husband's buried body.

As soon as we park outside my brownstone, I'm out of the car and into the house. I retreat to my room, which is now truly my room, and close the door behind me.

I curl up on Miguel's side of the bed and weep.

Half an hour later, when I'm delirious and dehydrated, there's a gentle knock on my door. I stumble from the bed and, glare at the ready, open it to reveal Miguel. In his hands is a glass of water.

I don't miss the way he winces when my flushed and wet-with-tears face greets him. Instead of saying anything, though, he just holds out the glass of water.