Finding the Horizon

Closing Doors

Lost- (Verb) To be missing

It's been two months. Two whole months, and no sign of her anywhere. I've called the police, my detective uncle, everyone I could think of. They've all told me it's time to close the door on Sofia's case. That it's hopeless. That I need to move on. But you don't move on when your wife goes missing. I haven't told them about the letters I found. All of them written in Sofia's neat cursive handwriting, postage stamps from around the world on them, some even boxes, unopened packages, clothes in their brown cardboard flaps. I have yet to read them, because I'm afraid of what I'll find. Now I know Sofia wasn't kidnapped. She wasn't taken. She left me. She left our children. She chose to leave. And that's what keeps me awake every night. I've recited what happened before she vanished so many times, I've memorized it, internalized the account. And still, every time, as I relate when I realized she was gone, it sinks in all over again.

"Sofia? You're home late, my love." I smile, pecking her lips. "I know. I'm sorry, work is keeping me busy. I hate to be away from the girls for so long." Sofia says apologetically, embracing me. Our adopted daughters, Catalina, and Hanna, rush over to her, bombarding her with exclamations and summaries of their day. "Mama, Señora Rosa gave me two stars for having good manners!" Catalina says excitedly, showing Sofia her blue star stickers stuck to her cream shirt. "Muy bien, hija! Very good!" Sofia says with a smile, picking up our youngest daughter. Catalina is 5, while Hanna is 7, and both speak some Spanish and some English, due to Sofia's Hispanic heritage. I hold my wife's hand, and all of us head for the living room, turning on the kids' favorite show. Sofia rests her head on my shoulder, kissing my cheek sweetly. Hanna snuggles up to me, and by the time the show is only halfway done, both children have fallen asleep. Sofia chuckles, gently picking up Catalina, and carrying her upstairs. I've never understood how they could sleep through being moved, shrugging as I follow Sofia with Hanna in my arms. After we've turned out the lights, both of us head to our own bed, arms around each other as we sleep.

That was the night before Sofia left. Before she was categorized as a "Missing Person". Before my whole world turned upside down. I close my eyes, calling the next morning into memory.

I wake up, the space next to me in the bed empty and cold. Thinking Sofia had gone to work early, as the hospital was often short staffed, I drive the girls to school, and head back home, picking up breakfast on the way. As a stay-at-home mom, I work from home, making lyrics to songs for singers, and sometimes performing at small places, just me and my guitar. I strum the guitar's strings, its familiar hum a comfort to me. After a few cords, I pause, and jot down the notes and key on a staff, inspecting it further. My phone starts vibrating, and I reach to check who the caller is. I recognize the number as one of Sofia's colleagues, puzzled, I answer it. "Hello? No, Sofia wasn't here this morning. Is she not at work? You're certain?" I ask the man, who seems as confused as I am. "Thank you for checking in. I guess she had plans today. I'm going to have to go now, have a nice day." I tell him, hanging up. I immediately dial Sofia's number, waiting for her to pick up. My phone rings several times, before going to voicemail. Odd. Sofia always answers her phone. I try three more times, and still, no answer. Hours go by, and she hasn't responded to any texts, calls, or voicemails that I leave her. Trying not to worry, I assure myself that she's just busy, and must've lost track of time. I remember to call my mother, who's picking up Catalina and Hanna today from school. "Mother, don't forget, you're taking care of the girls tonight, so Sofia and I can go on a date. It's our anniversary." I say with a smile. My mother tells me she recalls the agreement, hanging up on me. She'd always been a curt woman, all business. At five o'clock, I get dressed and ready, putting on my makeup, waiting for a knock at the door. No one comes.

My hands tremble as I open the oldest letter, pulling out a photo of two women. I remember this picture. It was our first date. Sofia had asked me out when I was traveling in Spain, and taken me sightseeing through the cities and towns, ending up at a secluded beach. It was the first of many unexpected nights, as always, filled with adventure. Sofia and adventure seemed to go hand in hand. It was one of the things I love about her. On the back, in near and concise handwriting, Sofia had written "Kira, by the time you're reading these, I've already gone. Don't try finding me, because you won't. I'm sorry to leave you, and our girls, but you'll understand someday. It's better this way. My most sincere wishes, -Sofia" I feel tears welling up, staring at the letter. I stare at it until the words blur, the ink running as my teardrops plop down onto the photograph. Several more letters wait for me, but I can't bring myself to read them yet. Not today.