Dear Maria (on hold)

Part 15

 Maria had decided that we (meaning me) needed to get out of the house and “stop moping about” as she put it. I won't deny that it made me laugh: Maria calling my reminiscing and recording our memories “moping about,” even if it did involve a certain amount of crying and depression, was pretty classic. Naturally she would take care of me, even when she was dying of cancer. She was right, of course. I needed to stop inflicting such purposeful pain upon myself, and just be with her, just live with her while I had the chance. So I took my lovely wife out to dinner.

As I watched Maria pick out her dress, I couldn't help but think that getting her so excited about going out would be even better for her than it was for me. It broke my heart just a little more, watching her putting on her make-up and picking out a necklace to wear. She chose the necklace with the silver key pendant, the one I had given her eons ago. It had once belonged to me, but I had given it to her a couple months after we had begun dating, to show her that she held the key to my heart, to me. As hokey as it sounded, there was actually something there, some tangible significance in finally relinquishing my key. I knew it couldn't be in better hands; little had I known then, a mere twenty-six, that Maria would still break my heart, but she would love me all the while she broke me. That I would love her, all the while she broke me.

I took her hand as we walked out to the car, our fingers interlacing, gripping each other securely. Though I knew full well that she didn't need any help, I opened the passenger's car door for her, and waited until she was in and buckled before closing it behind her. After all the years of her taking care of me, it felt right that I could take care of her, help her after all the times she's helped me. I just wish... I just wish that I could save her, like she saved me everyday.

We went to our favorite restaurant; we'd been going there for so long that most of the waiters, and certainly the owners, knew us very well by now. We sat by the window, and held hands on top of the table, and laughed, and ate delicious food and ate it without fear of what the rest of the world thought. Because I loved Maria too much to have feelings to spare for those who disapproved of our love. When dessert came, I gladly ate a piece of her cake (always cheesecake) off the end of her fork when she offered it to me, and fed her a bite of my chocolate cake in return. As we stood, after paying the bill, we linked arms and walked slowly out of the brightly lit restaurant. I laughed a little inside, remembering every time we'd eaten out, how I'd used to wonder how we'd look, eating dinner together by the window. Now, we looked less like best friends, or even lovers: now, we resembled the adorable old couple at iHop who just at in silence, simply looking at each other, completely comfortable with the lack of chatter, clearly in love. Maria and I, we'd always been that couple, but now we looked the part.

As we drove home, the roads dark, lit up here and there by the brief, blinding flash of headlights, Maria and I settled into the familiar silence that seemed to say more than words. I love you, the silence seemed to say. I know, I love you too, the silence replied. This won't last forever, the silence murmured. Believe me, I know, answered the silence. You're mine. The last phrase might as well have been spoken aloud, by both of us, because when I parked the car on the curb and we got out to walk back up to our home, our eyes met as our hands once again held each other. Always, the silence answered for us. If home was where the heart is, I thought as I unlocked the front door, stepped in and flicked on the lights, my home would always be with Maria. Even in death.