These Rainy Nights

Night Three

It's not raining.

Somehow, that's worse.

I'm still not okay, I'm still lost, without words, and I haven't a clue on what to do with myself if there's no you. And it's not raining.

It was sunny today. Sunny, like it was a good day.

Today was anything but a good day.

I cried myself to sleep last night, but I did get a bit of sleep. Still, it wasn't much, and wasn't for very long. I got maybe an hour of sleep, and it wasn't consecutive.

I heated up the lasagna your mother brought over. I opened the drawer to pick out a fork, but it was barren. Barren, like the house feels. It feels cold and empty and lonely.

And the drawer, the utensil drawer, was completely empty.

I looked back at the sink, which was nearly overflowing with the dirty dishes.

I didn't want to wash the utensils you touched. Washing away any trace of your fingertips, your gentle touch, the imprint that will disappear with the soap bubbles. The imprint I can't get back.

I seriously considered going to the store, buying new utensils, just so I wouldn't have to wash away your touch. I realized then; how absurd I must've sounded. How I must've been losing my mind, when I had perfectly good dishes in the sink, just waiting to be cleaned.

So, hesitantly, I picked up one fork. A fork, one that you touched, and set it aside. And then, with tears in my eyes, I ran the faucet. Plugged the drain. Filled the sink with warm water, and with each dish I washed, the soapier the water became. The more traces of you gone, gone with the grime and germs off of the unclean dishes. I washed each and every one of them, knowing if I didn't do it now, I didn't know if I ever could.

I washed all but one. All but the one fork I set aside. I picked it up, with gentle hands, just like the way you used to hold me. I walked over to a different drawer, one on the other side of the kitchen, and set it in there.

I shut the drawer. I can't do it. I can't just wash the last of your touch away, pretending you didn't exist. I can't.

The lasagna tasted good, as always. I always used to tell you how jealous I was of your mother's cooking.

"If only I could cook like Gemma," I used to say to you.

"You know I can call her." You chopped the vegetables. "Have her give you some recipes."

I gave a noncommittal shrug. "I wouldn't want to impose."

You stopped cutting and faced me. "Are you kidding, Marina? She loves you. Maybe even more than me," you joked.

"Still, it might be a bother," I started, trailing off.

"Whatever you say, Marina." You looked at me, a grin tugging at your lips. "Keep believing your lies."

I went to the funeral home today. For the viewing.

Your mother picked out the casket, I picked out the flowers, all in a daze on the first day. Your father picked out the funeral home, and Kendra sent in the photos, and the solemn invitations to her brother's funeral.

I chose lilies. They say that lilies represent innocence, and love. You had both qualities.

They were pink lilies. Bright pink, like the sunsets we used to watch on our back porch, sipping red wine or our nightly glass of lemonade.

I walked up, dubiously, to the casket. My legs were jelly, and my hands were trembling.

The mortician made you look peaceful. Like you were sleeping.

Your face was full of color, unlike what I saw in the hospital room. You looked like you hadn't even a scratch, but in that hospital, all I could see were wounds. Wounds and wounds, on every inch of your body. You were dressed in a nice suit, like the one on our wedding day, instead of a loose-fitting hospital gown. There wasn't a tube in sight, no monitors or machines, no tube down your throat.

You looked at peace.

But when I placed my hand on your chest, to feel your familiar heartbeat, reality came back crashing. I placed my hand on your chest, moved in circles, like that would be comforting somehow-but there was still no heartbeat. No sign that any of this-the color, the lack of wounds-was real.

The only thing that was real was the fact that you were in a casket.

(730 words).