Remembrances of a Lifetime

Part One of One

"We will always remember and revere the memory of James M. Lindon," the preacher drawled on. "He was a wonderful, kind-hearted man who was loved and will be dearly missed. And so, with this in mind, we will, with honor, lower him to his final resting place."

As the reverend's words drifted in and out of my ears, I began to reflect on how the mind is an incredible organ. Its capacity is amazing; it is always doing something. There comes a time in life, though, when a tragedy occurs-a tragedy so large, so colossal, that the mere idea of it becomes incomprehensible. The brain shuts down; the senses are numbed. Life itself seems unreal, as though we are all just puppets observing our own hectic show. Such was my mentality as I watched, with dull, glazed eyes, the body of my beloved husband being lowered into the ground by four relatives who seemed rather like strangers to me in that moment. I had been given the "honor"-as they had called it-to close his coffin earlier in the day. I didn't understand how shutting a door to a hideous block of wood was an honor when there was something so beautiful inside of it. That was like dumping mud and sludge over a magnificent blooming flower. It was not an honor; it seemed, in fact, a sin.

After the coffin was in the earth and a final prayer had been said, the people began to disperse. Some, in crisp black suits and straight charcoal dresses, approached me once the gathering was over. They offered their condolences mechanically, as though it was a matter of business, and this was their job. Time seemed to pass in slow motion as person after person hugged and kissed me. Each begged me to "keep in touch" and call them. I nodded politely at everyone as was my civil duty, but internally, my soul was screaming for them to leave. I wanted silence, I wanted confinement.

Before I even realized it, all the people were gone and I was driving home in my car. I stopped in the doorway as I wiped off my muddy shoes. My veined, aging hands ran over the frame of the door for a few seconds. I closed my eyes in short-lived oblivion. The first thing my eyes rested upon as I eventually shuffled into the house was the large picture hanging on the wall of the living room. The print had been purchased and framed as a gift from a friend, and had remained on that same wall ever since my husband and I moved into the house. It was a lovely portrait of us on our wedding day forty-one and a half years ago. The photographer had been wonderful at capturing candid moments, and as a result the picture depicted me in my snow-white fairytale dress looking lovingly up into the deep, caring eyes of my strong and handsome husband. The background was blurred, and the picture focused solely on our expressions, which, in that moment, revealed the inner colors and passions of our souls.

My mind flew back to that day, and instantly I recalled the pure joy I experienced kissing his lips in the moment we were declared husband and wife. I had been twenty-two at the time; he was twenty-five. It was a wonderful mid-June day. I had graduated college the month before and was ready to start my new life with my best friend by my side. My entire family was there-my sister Elouise, my brother Jack, my mother and father, my cousin Anna and my uncle Dave...all came to watch as I started that new chapter in my life.

Life was carefree for a while. I was completely and utterly happy. My heart felt it would burst for loving him so much, and I knew he felt the same. Waking up every morning next to him was truly a dream come true. Each day he treated me kindly, lovingly, like a genuine gentleman should. I recalled getting bills in the mail, bills we had no money to pay for, but still we loved and laughed and trusted we would get through it. I recalled him coming home one day and announcing he got a job, and that it payed well. I recalled him telling me he would have to travel two hours there and back each day, and I recalled being upset.

Our first fight ensued. My tears flowed freely and out of naivety I believed we would never make up. Stress at his new job and the pressure on me to find one of my own resulted in more arguments. Every day when he returned, I would have my hopes up of passing a peaceful evening, but every night, we wound up fighting again. Most of the time it was my fault, too,with my feisty, snappy mouth. I sighed and smacked my palm against the wall. My gray bangs fell over my eyes as I hung my head.