You were his wife in the 40's through thick and thin, sickness and health, richer or poorer, and through all of the twists of life. Even 70 years later you continued to love him, and stay by his side.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Raindrops pelted against my apartments windows, the stale water rinsing through the gutters, splashing out of the sides like a geyser. Puddles collected in the potholes that ran rampant throughout New York's streets, the muddy collections sloshing up with each car tire that drove through them.
Crowds shielded themselves from the downpour, and from an aerial point of view making it look like there was nothing except a sea of drifting umbrellas.
The evenings dull lavender light was squelched by ominous thunderclouds. The storm stifling any last remnants of sunlight, rendering the atmosphere lifeless, like tossing sand onto a fire, extinguishing it's fiery resonance.
The continual pitter-patter of droplets tapping against the glass reminded me of hail during a blizzard, and the splotchy grey clouds hung so low that they touched the tiptops of the skyscrapers. Billowing across the buildings in a foggy mess, blackening out some of the city's blinding iridescence.
It had been a day and a half now, and I hadn't left my apartment, refusing to answer the door to anyone either. I knew that if Steve really wanted to he could oh, so easily break the door down, but I also knew that he wouldn't dare try out of concern that that'd cause a huge rift in our friendship. And, that I'd never forgive him, something he doesn't want. Nonetheless, I was grateful for some privacy, even after being mean, and yelling at him.
He understood, and I'm sure we could both use each others shoulders to collapse our mutual sorrow onto, but I wasn't even ready to do that. I couldn't face the world right now, let alone Steve. I couldn't bare to see the anguish stitched across his face even though I saw it within my own reflection every time I looked in the mirror.
The hypnotic soft tune of 40's music played from the record player in my living room, the one Steve found for me at an antique shop. The classic compositions from Frank Sinatra, Louis Armstrong, and Ella Fitzgerald not even enough to unwind my nerves.
The euphony suffocating me instead, waning around me, making it feel like the walls of my apartment were closing in on me.
Never before had I felt so explicitly, so openly weak, disabled from the roots. Actually, I hadn't even cried this much since the last time I lost him.
Honestly, I don't remember much about that day in the Alps once I jumped from the train against Steve's wishes. Most of it an obscure, vague blur sealed tight within my conscious. I recall surviving the fall, and I spent for what felt like an eternity in the blank canvas of never ending snow. I remember how my tears froze to my face like icicles, and that my body had started to stiffen with the threat of hypothermia.
I felt like I was in a trance back then with nothing else mattering except finding him, or rather, his body. I remember most, the pain of it all. Like a toxic thorn in my side, a thorn that had now returned.
My pillowcase was damp with my tears, but I still shoved my face into the satin, my phone on a constant tangent of perpetual calls, and texts. All from Steve, wanting to see me, asking if my shoulder was better, and making sure if I was okay. He was indeed keeping his distance, but his interest remained steadfast, not wavering.
