Knock Three Times

36. Blessed Be

                 "SORROW WAS ALL THAT was left of the heart crippled man, every memory they shared was now a fleeting archive of moments that would never again replicate, or mimic in any way, shape or form. Subtle gestures or facial movements, a quick conversation or the way two people shared a single memory with a slight glance; these were the moments that sparked the best of their memories as husband and wife—memories that now belonged to him alone, like a single hand trying to clap. Every passing day was like a reminder of his ever-deepening loneliness, a tiny hole in his heart the very shape of Michelle Davidson that still seared when the harsh wind blew.

    Josh had been told countless times that life somehow flashes before your eyes when you die, but he'd never thought it possible from another's perspective. The first time they shared a look; their first date, though somewhat awkward, he'd never been more enchanted or taken by a woman. Priding himself as a man of reason, Joshua had never considered the possibility of love at first sight—not really. In fact, he thought the notion rather silly, comparable to a grown-up fairy tale and nothing more. What is it about true love that washes away all preconceptions of normality, that addictive feeling that all things are possible even though science may not necessarily agree?

    We believe because we must.

    A once thought ridiculous notion can be easily swept away, never thought impossible again, and all it would take is a single look. Michelle had hooked him upon first glance, across a busy room of a local café many years prior. In that fraction of a second, he would question everything about what he thought he knew. Likewise, in death, that feeling of endless possibility somehow reverses, and without them by your side nothing seems possible.

    Where do we go from here?

        How do I find a way to push forward?

    A lost and grieving husband held his wife's hand but a moment before the casket was closed, the sight of the lid closing a memory he would never forget, as though mere wood and plastic was a guardian of the dead who would forbid him from ever seeing her again. A piece of him died when he watched her lowered into the cold earth, alone, and without him. He knew every square inch of her body better than he knew himself; the way the dimples on her lower back seemed more defined when she was stressed, the heart-shaped birthmark on her upper calf he'd always found adorable, or the smell of her delicate neck after a workout which always ensnared his senses and drove him wild . . . every slight detail of his beloved wife would now rest far out his reach, leaving nothing but memory to remind him of how much he loved her.

    This was the moment he broke, never whole again . . ."

    The writer gave his head a shake as he lost himself in the moment, the sound of laughter breaking his concentration. He had been up all night again, trying to write the proper ending to his novel, but each and every time he attempted a devastated mind couldn't quite find the words to define his own loss. The image of her still expression, those all too familiar eyes staring into the moonlight haunted his dreams, cemented and relentless.

    He slept in intervals here and there, when his mind could no longer function without; even then he would wake up in tears. The husband and wife were never on the same sleep cycle, their professions vastly different, but she would wake him only just to say goodbye each morning, dressed in her nurses scrubs and full of coffee. Every so often, when Josh found himself caught between dream and reality he would feel her presence, but when he would open his eyes to see that he was alone, it was like he was losing her all over again. Sometimes, it would take a moment to remember she was gone, and he would relive the moment over and over again, like he was trapped in a loop of despair that relentlessly hounded him, starving for every tear. And so he fought sleep with every fiber of his being.