No one new entering my life. My self-imposed isolation disallowing entry and removing me from the pool of possibility, despite the continual watching, sitting on edges and observing others wallow. Despite the often curious and at times inviting glances when I mingle in crowds and social gatherings. Men still hankering after whatever it was is I displayed - what I have always displayed publicly - and despite my never acknowledging it.
The day I was walking with my son recently, and two men in a Fire truck whistled - something so anachronistic it made me smile, taking me back to the days when I'd leave a sea of invitations behind me; eyes following, mouths voicing possibilities in my passing. What had these two men seen? I was no young thing, exposing flesh and eliciting fleshy responses; I was a mother, walking alongside a much taller son, matching his easy strides and chattering. Yet they had seen something. A remnant exposed during those few moments waiting for the lights to change.
"Gross, mum," my son had said. His young mind not willing to accept his mother as a sexual thing, as something men might covet.
Over a decade without a man to explore, analyse, describe, chronicle; without the influence of a new fascination providing further frames of reference. Once unimaginable, this state of being, once needing men to pound against, wrack my body, my mind, the resulting verbal creations justifying the carnage within and without.
Nikk stares at me from the creased and crumpled photo I've now slotted in a cheap plastic frame. I carried his memorial booklet in my bag for months - almost disintegrating - until I transferred it to this frame. He in a dark suit, one hand in the front pocket of his pants the right elbow resting on a limousine, an enigmatic, almost-smile on his lips. I am familiar with this precise expression: Not a real smile because the crease is there between his brows, the crease I share. Twin expressions, our faces mirroring mental exertion times we debated concepts the masses ignored. Heavy conversations, thinking on such abstract levels our brains struggled to consolidate, resulting in those twin frowns of concentration.
He believed in an after-life, in the passing of the spirit to something else, another physical entity perhaps. He believed in other worlds, other dimensions. Time irrelevant, death irrelevant... Fuck, he believed so absolutely, I expected him to deliver evidence after his passing. Dreams sure, I had a few dreams. He telling me "I'm alright, stop worrying woman!" But maybe these were self-created; a way for my mind to deal with his death and my failing him? I crave tangible proof. This is never provided, only ever his face staring back in frozen symmetry.
His picture is still a source of comfort though, perched on top of my computer case. Sometimes I smile at him. Most often I aim my eyes upwards searching the creased and crumpled image for the hope he lives somewhere, even a place inaccessible from this dimension. I pray he is right because he died too young, because we were denied long years ahead; long conversations. Friendship... The company of one who cared less about what I thought I was and most about how I was.
"Some arrive briefly then depart leaving the vacancy sign blinking on unconcerned. Carrying away flimsy chunks of time and leaving who, what, where and why alone. Some when you need, also lack themselves, and you see eerie light where you expected bright shining hope. And so you cope. Until once in a while one touches you and shares the carving of the monuments to faith. One takes your burden, offers instead bread and a bed. The vacancy sign flickers off. You see your new tenant, humanity. Somenever leave, or take. They give."
His wife never understood me. I never allowed her the process of understanding, keeping it always about Nikk. Ah the resentment! How difficult it must have been for her to call me, tell me, "He is dying, come quick." This after finally seeing the myriad messages between us, the emails; ample evidence of a life-long partnership in an assumed deceit... She believed she'd removed me from his life decades ago, those early days when she resented my influence and in defence judged my inadequacies and instigated my exile. She dared ask me the question after the funeral:
YOU ARE READING
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Non-FictionThis is my memoir. As such, I am letting you in on the most intimate parts of me. No glib opinion piece or a well-thought-out theory, this. It's me. I come with a warning. No child under eighteen should read any part of my story. It is raw. It is u...
