Once

The clock struck twelve, and I opened my eyes.

The house was dark, familiar in that distant way, like when you can’t recall a word or name that’s passed your lips a thousand times. Moonlight shone through the plated glass of the front door, throwing a long pattern of light across the rug under my feet, across the white cotton of my shift. The grandfather clock sat in the corner near the door, tall and polished, marking the unwavering constant of time as it ticked past, second by second.

It was my home, once. The knowledge slipped over me like fog in the night and pushed me forward with cold hands. I took a step, then another, touched the doorknob and turned it. Pulled it open and closed it behind me, harder than I intended. The windows shook when it slammed. 

From somewhere upstairs, I heard a woman sob. “I can’t take it anymore, Sam. We have to move.” There was desperation in her voice. 

“It’s nothing,” a man answered.

“You and I both know that’s not true.” Her words wavered. “I can’t keep doing this every night. I don’t care how long this house has been in your family.”

Their voices faded away as I walked across the patio. There was nothing to be done except leave.

The white boards creaked under my feet as I walked down the stairs and to the path as I had a thousand times before. The world was bathed in moonlight, the grass and white picket fence, the trees that stretched up and whispered in the breeze. 

I heard a child’s laugh, an echo across time, and as if a curtain had been pulled away, the sun beamed down on the grass. He was just as I remembered him, running with outstretched hands and his face up to the sun, smiling with the abandon only a child or someone in love could possess. His hair shone like gold, just like my own. My boy. My child.

Henry.

I was a mother once. Remembering brought me no surprise, though I felt a piece of my life slide into focus as I watched him run. I had already known somewhere in my heart, in my mind. I carried him once, held him in my arms. Laid him on my breast and shushed him. Whispered in his ear that I would protect him, care for him. 

His specter caught fire like a photograph in a flame, chewing away at the image of him, eating holes in the vision until there was nothing left, and the sunlight that graced us snuffed out like a candle. I was once again alone in the moonlight, listening to the crickets sing and the trees rustle, and life went on as if I had not seen my heart burned away. 

I stepped to the gate and laid my hand on the latch, and when I pushed it open, I stepped onto the street as it once was. Ruts cut into the dirt and mud like wounds in the earth, and I remembered the sound of hooves as our bridal carriage stopped in front of our home.

I was beautiful once. He loved me once. 

On our wedding day, we stood under flowering lilacs and promised we would love each other for all of our years. His happy tears fell, his smile full of promise of our days to come. He carried me through that very gate, through that very door, to our room where he laid me down and gave me his love, and I gave him mine. Where we lay tangled together for days, smiling and sighing and wishing we could stop time. And months later when I told him I carried our child, he picked me up and spun me around until we were dizzy. I remember his hands in my hair, his lips on my own. I felt his hand on my cheek, remembering how he cherished me and gave me his heart, and we built our own world, built our happiness. 

James.

The old street faded away, replaced by the new, and I left my memories behind me as I crossed the street and walked into town, turning onto Main, toward the ocean.