To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Forty-Six: April

Chapter Forty-Six

April was the promises I never kept.

April was the questions I never asked.

April was the rock I pushed up the hill, only to see it roll back down; helpless and furious at myself, at my punishment, at the choices that'd forced me here.

April was hearing others say it wasn't surprising to see such a rapid decline at her age. They said it simply, like she was just another number or patient. It wasn't unheard of, her doctors reasoned, even though she'd only just reached her early seventies, because sometimes the body simply... gave out. Sometimes the mind was ready to rest. Sometimes the end was a mercy, an extended hand of pity and kindness by death herself.

Sometimes, the rest of us had to come to terms with it despite our reluctance and grief.

Yet, Geraldine's fading still felt like a blindsiding sucker punch. It didn't matter that it'd been weeks overall—it felt short; the blink of an eye compared to her impressive life. From the strong woman she'd always been, to the tired woman ready to join her husband, Geraldine had changed like a dandelion. First, she'd been full of color, vibrant and true, then a single blink, and suddenly the yellow was pale, and the wishes were ready to be released to the wind. I could hold my breath as long as I liked—but nature knew what was out of our hands.

April was short. April was the longest month of my life. The beginning of April was the last time we saw the remaining dredges of the Geraldine we knew.

Geraldine's time in April was painfully limited, but heaven almighty, it was meaningful. I couldn't put into words how, but its meaning didn't require words; it required hearts who loved her, promises made in a translation eyes, ears, and lips couldn't provide.

And I hoped she would've believed me.

I hoped she would've believed me if I had told her I'd never forget the time I'd spent with her. If I had gotten the chance to tell her, I hoped she would've believed me.

I would never forget any of it. I couldn't even if I tried, especially those final days when time ran out. I would hold those memories close, and I wouldn't tell anyone about them; those moments were secrets I couldn't share. They were private conversations she took to her grave, and mysteries I would take to mine. Nothing else mattered. They hadn't included everything they'd needed to, I knew, but it didn't matter. It didn't goddamn matter. They hadn't included answers—but they'd included so much. They'd included enough for a tired soul to bid farewell to a kindred spirit; enough for me to see peace at the window, waiting for me to open it whenever I was ready.

Geraldine died on April 8th. Right as the sun set on the western coast; as oranges, purples, and pinks flooded the sky above the sea, filling Damar with the colors she loved.

Geraldine died surrounded by family and loved ones. She peacefully joined her husband somewhere we'd all follow someday, enveloped by the family they'd made together. It wasn't the violent dousing of a flame, it was the quiet, final slumber of an accomplished blaze, crackling as it dozed off in the ashes.

Geraldine died while I sat on her bench above the cliff, letting her family have their last moments with the woman we loved so much. I sat on the bench carved with her memories. I sat, not sure what I was waiting for, not sure why I was staying, but hunched over on stone nonetheless, staring at an unending sea.

Geraldine died while I was alone. I was numb; I couldn't feel the tears on my cheeks until the winds blew, pushing away the colors and twilight until darkness swallowed everything.

Geraldine died and I never said goodbye—but I said it on that bench before anyone found me. I said it, because some part of me knew; some part of me knew when she was gone. Like I'd known then, all those months ago, on a lonely September night, that the Widow was gone.

Geraldine died and I'd never asked her.

Geraldine died and I'd probably never know.

Geraldine died without knowing the truth, without giving me clarity, and without anyone having all of the answers we needed.

Geraldine died before the final piece was in place—and I hadn't even known she'd been part of the puzzle.

Geraldine died and she was gone.

Geraldine died and...

Nothing.

Because Geraldine died.