It's raining.
It's raining, and I can see why.
To some, rain is soothing. It's a soft sound, and the way the drops patter on the roof, not quite silently, but not quite loudly either. It's a noise of calm, of a soft ambience.
Your voice was my rain. A familiar sound, and I love the way you said my name.
But it brings me sharp sadness to know that I'll never hear you softly say the name "Marina", the word just dangling off your lips, never to be spoken by you again.
The rain right now isn't soothing. It's bothering, and pounding on the roof, like the ghost of you, pounding to come back here.
The books adorning the bookshelf still have the faint fingerprints of you on them. The blankets tossed on the chairs still smell like you. Home still looks like you.
You're not here. I know that. But I feel you here. And when I got home, I forgot all about today, expecting the scent of dinner, like spaghetti, to waft through my nose and I walked my way to the kitchen. I walked to the kitchen, to help with the sauce and share a kiss like we always do, but when I entered, there was no spaghetti. No sauce to prepare. No scent of the meal, or even a trace. Silence. Deafening silence.
And there was no you.
I expected you there. Despite everything, I expected you there.
And I would tell you all about the horrible dream, all about the phone call, and the doctors and nurses, and one of them sitting me down and telling me all about the accident. I would tell you all about the terrible, terrifying beeps of the machinery and how it faded into a dull, constant sound as I felt the final beat of your heart, heard the final sigh you exhaled, and then nothing.
Home, it doesn't feel like home anymore. Home was me and you, dancing around the living room like nothing else mattered. Home was cooking spaghetti. Home was watching a movie so terrible that we both just fell asleep on the couch. Home was laughing at cheesy jokes or snuggling until sunset.
Home wasn't like this. The empty, barren silence as I wait for you to return. The pain in my chest as I look all around, and see you in every corner, every picture frame. Every picture reminds me of you, and your photos placed all over the room.
And the one thing I have left of you, is our daughter, who will never get to meet you.
(424 words).
YOU ARE READING
These Rainy Nights
Short Story"These rainy nights without you are some of the hardest nights I've ever had to face." After the loss of her husband, Marina Clarke documents everything. She has to learn how to cope in a world she'd never imagined would happen-not to her. "These Ra...
