19 September 2012
The day I finally walked out and closed the faded red front door behind me with a click, I knew I would never see our home again. I'd never sit beneath the big tree in the garden, reading a book, quietly absorbing the tranquility of nature, birdsong and the rustle of leaves providing a musical accompaniment. I'd never round the corner of our street in the dusk of early evening and see the kitchen window, a little rectangular beacon of light, calling me homewards, to the safety of our tiny house. I'd never come home to my tea, warming in the oven, whilst you sat in your favourite chair, stunning in your homeliness, guitar in your deft hands.
Oh how you could make that guitar sing, old and well-worn as it was. Even after all these months, I was still mesmerised by your guitar playing, how your fingers worked quickly over the strings, how you made it seem so effortless. Sometimes you would catch me watching and you would stop, laughing, embarrassed at how fervently I was studying you. I couldn't help myself. Everything about you was perfect, from your frequently untidy hair to your soft, green eyes, and I constantly marvelled that you would waste your time loving a walking disappointment like me. But, for some inexplicable reason, you loved me just as much as I loved you. And you told me, every evening, as I fell asleep in your arms.
We never had much; being an unsuccessful writer came with little money. You were content scratching out a living doing this and that and anything that took your fancy for a few weeks, before you tired of it and drifted to something new. But we always got by, materially, and we were content with that. For we had time, and that was worth more than any possessions. Time together; just talking and going for long walks along the coastal path, watching the waves for hours, your arm around my shoulder, mine settled around your waist.
It was ironic really, that what we valued most - time - was what was taken from us. We were young, neither of us was even thirty, but it seems death pays no account to age or carefully laid plans. It was, as most people suffer, a wasteful and undramatic death - you simply stepped out in front of a car. Doubtless you were in your own world, plugged in to an MP3 player, probably singing along as you meandered through town. The sad-faced police officer said you died instantly, that you probably never knew what happened. They always say that, but how can they possibly know? Regardless, it was no comfort and I was suffering enough for the both of us. My life was suddenly, drastically empty and I realised that without you, I didn't want a life at all. I was only half a person now, broken and distorted, and I saw no possibility of recovering. In fact, I didn't want to. I didn't want to move on, to forget, to let another person into my life, not ever. You were the only man I had ever loved, and I intended to keep it that way. Anything else would be an insult to your memory, to the life we had shared. No one could ever live up to you.
So, on that quiet Sunday morning, as I walked away from our little slice of former paradise, I knew I would never return. Just being there, in our house, was a bitter reminder of all I had lost. I took the path we used to walk; through the meadow where we would try to count the rabbits at sunset, through the sparse little copse of bedraggled trees and down the hill to the costal path. The gravel pathway twisted and wound up a cliff to a picturesque old lighthouse at the top. As I walked, salt on my lips from the sea air, I could almost feel your hand in mine, I could hear the echo of your deep voice on the breeze, I could smell your cologne. I never knew it was possible to miss someone so much, to miss them to the point where you become numb all over, like how your feet feel just before a bout of pins and needles sets in. I suppose I never knew how much I loved you until you were gone.
As I walked, the last of the Autumn sun warming my back, I let the tears come again, as they often did, silent but severe, threatening to drown my cheeks. But when I finally reached the cliff-top my tears had dried themselves and I felt eerily calm, at peace, almost happy. Even the sea was peaceful and flat; no white-capped waves battered the cliffs today. It seemed the ocean knew what I had come for; there would be no return trip along the path for me. I meant this to be my last climb. I sat on the edge of the cliff, but no fear choked my heart. Nothing could ever be scarier than the prospect of living without you. So, without a second thought, I pushed away from the grassy cliff-top and I let myself fall, down toward slate and sand and the cold, salty sea. It must have been mere seconds, but every one felt like the passing of an age, with the grey-blue of the water inching towards me in slow motion and the wind softly pulling back my hair. In my last moment, before all the world turned warm and black, I'm certain I heard you, singing and playing your guitar. And I smiled, because although I had lost you, I had been lucky enough to love you.
Nothing Could Ever Be Scarier Than Living Without You • Opuss № I