Nixon

••• Forty •••

As a child, one of my favorite activities was something common for a little girl who would dream of a prince charming to swoop her off her feet and give her the happily ever after she was told about in bedtime stories. Many nights I would lay awake, my imagination running wild as I played within my head a universe where I was older, beautiful, riding off into the sunset with the prince who saved me from a dragon or ogre. As a child, life was simple as I believed that happily ever afters could exist for anyone, you just had to be willing to go on an adventure to find your prince. Sure, my prince did not ride me off into some sunset nor swooped me off my feet, or even was a prince. Nixon was nothing of what my childhood mind would think of as my ideal prince, but in so many ways, he did things that I would dream of my prince doing. In a way, he saved me from a dragon, the dragon being Zion as he invaded our home and tired to kill me. I went on an adventure to find him, breaking into his house for some stupid dare that landed me into his life as we found our happiness in the end. As a child I imagined my prince marrying me, telling me that he loved me, showing me the world, offering me beautiful gifts. Nixon did so much of that are more. Nixon did not just show me parts of this world on vacations, but showed me his world as well, opening up my eyes to a new realm filled with what people would call fiction. Nixon married me, he told me day after day that he loved me, never stopping to tell me I was the most precious thing in his life. He offered me beautiful gifts too, clothes, jewels, and other material things my childhood self would jump up and down for, but must of all, he gave me the greatest gift, us the greatest gift: our daughter.

The little girl whose latest picture I have just stuck to the fridge, a pastel pink magnet holding up the new sonogram as I find a ghost smile appearing on my face, my fingers sliding the ring on my finger around. Looking over my shoulder to the kitchen table, the mahogany table is set, a delicate, cream running spread across the center, white French plates set at four wooden chairs, silverware laid out, and the garlic-roasted chicken almost ready to be placed on the table, I wonder what Nixon would think. If he would think me insane, crazy, delusional, brave, optimistic,  or mature. Taking in a deep breath, I look to the salads I have sitting on the white marble counters, the French country kitchen Nixon designed polished and clean for the three guests that will soon ring the doorbell and I will welcome into this house as if nothing wrong has happened. Nothing will be brought up within the first few minutes of greeting as we will smile and be happy, only then for the reality to settle in and us realize what has happened. At least...two people will act this way as the other guest wants to ignore my existence. This is what I expect to happen.

Taking my hair our of the bun it is held in, the dark red locks seem to suit me now, the phase I have entered into as the color of my hair is the color of the substance I hope to drain from specific person's body. With my chin raised, I look at myself in the reflection of a window, the black jeans I wear form-fitting, the winter boots matching as I found this outfit to be something you would find on Pinterest in your boredom. With a gray and hunter green flannel upon my upper half, my stomach shows, my guests being able to fully see my state of pregnancy the moment they spot me. I look classy yet casual, perfect for a nice dinner and chatting. Walking past the kitchen and into the joining sitting room, the lounging couches are of cream fabric, soft, baby blue pillows adding color, a birch coffee table set between the couches as they face a wall completely made of windows, a view of the small lake on full display as the snow still covers the ground outside.

The weather has gotten warmer since Christmas, since the holiday I once loved and cherished became a holiday I could never see myself celebrating ever again. Even as a child I loved the season for red and green, for Christmas lights, Christmas trees, and hot chocolate. People grow up, and sometimes, disaster strikes and you find yourself hating what you once loved even if only a year ago. Sometimes you grow up in a short duration of time and learn that you have changed and what has changed you. For me, Nixon's death changed me, making me thirst for blood, for revenge, for justice upon the man that wears a crown and his followers see him as some innocent dove.