Hurricane Kathleen

He stood on the dirty gravel path, unwilling to move closer yet unable to move away. The stillness of this place saturated his very being. He stayed motionless even as the bare, skeletal trees bent and groaned around him; the aftermath of a hurricane dying out off the coast somewhere. His hat had almost been victim to the high winds, and his scarf had acquired a life of it's own. It was only his clenched fists buried deep in his coat pockets that kept the chill from infiltrating his conciousness, which was occupied with more important things than his own discomfort.

Although he had been here every one of the seven hundred and forty seven days that had passed, not including the ones where he had been hospitalised, he knew nothing of the place. He couldn't tell you the number of trees, or how many flowerbeds were here. All he knew were the number of steps it took to reach this exact spot and the words in front of him:

KATHLEEN ADAMS

1957-2010

A LOVING WIFE

"DO NOT STAND AT MY GRAVE AND WEEP -

I AM NOT THERE, I DO NOT SLEEP."

Those last words were all the comfort he had right now. It was a quotation from here favourite poem, one she had stumbled upon while searching for a present for her mother. It held all her beliefs about death, and he clung to her ideas like a drowning man would a lifeboat. There was something – anything, anywhere, - after death. It wasn't the end. He refused to believe that they would not meet again. He caught himself before the tears could fall. She didn't want him to cry for her, and he wouldn't. But it was hard to keep the tears in with the wind assaulting him as it was. The chill was making his eyes burn, but if he blinked it would all come spilling forth like lava from a volcano. He was certainly feeling volatile.

As if in response to his errant thought, thunder rumbled it's way overhead. Glancing up instinctively he saw that the sky had darkened dramatically, and to the west he could see a solid wall of rain advancing upon him. Within seconds he was drenched, and even his wayward scarf could not escape the weight of the water that plastered it to his chest. Like a boa constrictor he felt it tighten around him, he could feel it squeezing at him relentlessly. His breath came in short, sharp pants as he struggled to work himself free. Falling to his knees he managed to rip the scarf off, but he could still feel himself panicking. It was too much like that night. As he gazed at the turf covering his wife's final resting place, he could almost see down all six feet to her coffin. He could see her, as young and beautiful as she was on their wedding day, trapped in a box. He could feel it too. The space around him was getting smaller and smaller, the earth above was getting heavier and heavier with each droplet of water. His arms went around himself as he tried to stave off the claustrophobia that resulted from that night; that terrible night when all he loved had been taken from him.

Another bright flash from above sent him over the edge of reality, and he was back in the car two years ago. It played out in slow motion before him, although the actual incident had happened so fast he hadn't known what was going on. That didn't seem to bother his imagination though, and the lightning turned into the headlights of the lorry that had spun out of control on the wet road surface. He felt dizzy as he saw the massive goods vehicle plough into the drivers side, taking that half of the car with it and spinning the other half in the opposite direction. His half rolled over and over, getting smaller and smaller as he fought to stay concious. It had settled finally, on what used to be the roof. The shattered glass cut into his legs and one arm, he could feel blood dripping from his chin up over his face as he hung upside down. The space was too small and the rain was pouring in through the large gap to his right. He panicked as much as his throbbing head would allow, praying to whomever was listening to save him from drowning in a car. He wondered if Kathleen was okay. Then he lost conciousness.

He awoke hours later to bright lights and a splitting headache. He turned his head to the right; an old man was lying there with a bandage wrapped around his head. He turned his head to the left, despite the pain that erupted across most of his upper body. There was a young girl, no more than twenty five, unconscious and bloody. She looked comatose. A doctor came in, asked him his name, asked how he was feeling, asked if he had any questions. He wheezed out one word – Kathleen? The doctor's friendly smile died slightly, and he knew the truth. The doctor apologised, told him he was very lucky to be alive, but he heard no more. The world had faded to black once again, and he hoped he would stay there in oblivion.

A sharp 'clunk' sounded in front of him, at last breaking his trance. The plastic vase at the base of the headstone was on it's side and rolling, the fresh flowers scattering in the wind. He lunged for them, gathering as many as he could. The petals had mostly been knocked off by the tyrant weather, and at the sight of the mangled offering he began to weep. He cried for his wife, he cried for himself, he cried for the lorry driver that had also lost his life. He cried for his friends, who had all but given up on him. Clutching the flowers to his chest he fell forwards until his head was resting in the mud.

Just as the rain had crept up on him, so too did the end of the storm. The rain stopped, the winds died down, and all he could hear were his own lessening sobs. He didn't know how long he had been here, in the mud. With a sigh he heaved himself upwards, his leg wounds protesting. Although they were long since healed, they bothered him occasionally in cold, damp conditions. Righting the vase, he placed the flowers he was clutching in their rightful place. They were limp and twisted, their beauty lost, but they were hers.

Brushing himself down as best he could, and grimacing slightly at the stains covering most of his trousers and sleeves, he allowed himself one last look at the headstone before turning away. Behind him he missed the whisper of the last breeze of the storm flowing through the mangled flowers:

Do not stand at my grave and cry -

I am not there, I did not die.