Junk Box

Love Doesn't Die

I raise my hand in a wave, watching as you turn and blow me one more kiss.

I will come back, you mouth. One day, I promise.

I know. I'll be waiting, I return, smiling as you wave to me.

Then you vanish into the crowd, and I feel my heart go with you. I will miss you dearly, but I know you will be safe where you are going, regardless of what I have been told in the contrary.

A year goes by of letter after letter. Yours come in various shapes and conditions, testifying to the hardships you refuse to write of. There are sometimes pictures wrapped lovingly in the letters, each one showing you a little more tired, a little more dirty.

I frame each and every one, taking care with the letters creased from continual reading. As I walk down the hallway, I run my fingers, my lips, along the frames, imagining that it's your lips, your hair, your skin that I'm touching instead of wood.

At night, I find the picture of you next to my bed, kissing your lips and whispering everything I would say if you were here. There are times when I feel that the skin beneath my lips warms, that a breath caresses my face, and that your eyes shimmer with a mischievous look.

As I lay down every night, I turn on my side and whisper in the dim light that I love you. And every night, whether it's in the breeze or the creak of the house, I hear your voice sigh back that you love me too.

However, after that first year, the letters come less and less frequently, becoming shorter and shorter. There are times when I can barely decipher what you have written because it is smudged and ruined by the elements.

One day, I come home to one last thin letter. Fingers shaking, I open the envelope and find only one word written in shaky letters: malaria. I watch the ragged piece of paper flutter from my fingers, gliding to the floor.

Then I'm on the ground next to it, fingers digging into my face as heavy wet sobs rake my body. Carefully, I pick up the note, touching it to feel the last thing that you will ever touch.

I love you, I whispered in the quiet.

Day after day passes, turning into weeks, but I lie in bed, feeling my heart beat faintly in time with yours. Finally, I feel that last extra flicker in my chest die out, and I lie back, seeing the pictures and letters surrounding me start moving.

As my breaths become shallower and shallower, I stare at those moving images and letters, watching them flicker across my fading eyesight.

I blink for the last time, and you're standing there, transparent and made of swirling lines.

You reach out your hand to me, and I see your lips move.

I love you....
¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥
This is one of my favorite stories in the collection thus far. Even though it's sad, I feel like they find their happy ending when they are reunited in death.
Feel free to disagree on that point because you're free to do so.
By the way, if you have great ideas for stories (maybe happier ones...), I would love to hear them.
As always, comment please.
Until next time,
Abigail