2022 WATTYS SHORTLISTED || After being forced into a marriage by her devoutly religious parents, Aspen's husband is diagnosed with a life-limiting illness, and she must find her purpose as well as fight feelings for her husband's nurse. || Aspen Wat...
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A W E E K L A T E R
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Seventeen days. Nearly three weeks.
It's enough time for the flat to look like only one person lives here, with snapshots of a man once there. The coat he used to wear hangs on the rack still, and it's like that part of the house is frozen in time.
It's enough for the bed to feel too big. No sand comes from the sandman, the fridge is vastly reduced, and everywhere is Joel.
Day bleeds into night, and night burns to day. Every day is closer to his funeral, yet something feels wrong. I feel freer than I ever have; I go out by myself; I smile at people who pass. My neighbour, Anne, has even started sending up Tupperware boxes of food for me just so we can have a chat. I've discussed with the university about continuing but having extra time on my assignments, I'm just awaiting their reply. I sent a message to Summer to have a tentative conversation about Nick's offer of letting me move in so she can have this flat.
Although I feel freer, life is lonely. Joel is no longer here to joke about stupid TV shows with, he's not lurking on the sofa playing video games at night, he's not there to chat to at three in the morning when we can't sleep.
I enjoy the freedom of being this new Aspen Watkins who isn't tied down by religious parents or a forced marriage without love. But what I don't like is this flat. It took me three days to manage to understand that it's not the lack of people in this flat that bothers me, it's the reminders of Joel.
I need out of here.
I can't afford to buy a new home or rent a new place. I need a job for that, and though I'm waiting to hear back from two part-time jobs, I don't currently have much income. I also have a boyfriend who has a home. So, while it might get tongues waggling to hear about the widow moving in with a man three weeks after her husband died, it makes the most logical sense to move in with Nick.
He loves me, I love him. We're together. I still need time to accept Joel's death. But the thing that strikes me, like the cage that needed to be unlocked from around me, the acceptance will come when I'm out of the home we shared.
I stare at my phone. The little orange hand that turns with each second swims around the face four times before I sigh. They say that red is a sign of danger, but no one has anything for orange. That orange hand is so torturous when you watch it swirl around a clock face as you wait for something.
How hard is it to reply to messages these days?
I stare at the last message I sent to my dad three days ago; fourteen days after Joel died. 'Hi, Dad. I know this is going to be a shock to read over text, but right now it's the only way I feel able to tell you. Unfortunately, Joel had another seizure three days ago and, well, he didn't make it. I'm still processing it right now as you can imagine. I'd appreciate it if the 'fuss' if you know what I mean is kept to a minimum. Aspen.'
