Into Dust

Into Dust

This could have gone in multiple categories. However, so as not to spoil the story more than necessary, (and with the point that it's in this category, too late for one point, and the tags to help folks find it years from now will spoil some others) I'll save the more important remarks for the ending.

I hope you find this story interesting. It's been rattling around for five months before I started writing it, then it came through quickly, though it did morph a bit (to work better flow-wise).

- - - - -

I sat in the folding chair, wearing my finest black suit, my shoes showing a spit shine taught to me by my now long gone grandfather, from his days as a pilot in the Army Air Corp. To my left was my oldest son, Brandon, the 23 year old keeping a tight grip my hand. To my right, my 20 year old daughter Cassandra rested her hand on my knee, gently squeezing it every time she realized how close to tears I was. Behind me, with his left hand on my right shoulder and his right hand on Cassandra's left shoulder was Cassandra's twin brother, David. All four of us were dressed in black, holding a single white rose in our laps.

In the distance, I could hear the call of a morning dove, cooing softly in the small copse of woods a hundred feet or so behind us. The sky was a deep azure blue, bluer than I think I'd ever seen here. All around, I could hear a low murmur from the people gathered with us in that grassy field, dotted with upright stone markers. Above us the canopy was still, as if the air was otherwise stagnant on that lazy summer early afternoon.

And all I could see, all I could concentrate on, was what laid before me, the end of my hopes, my dreams, my joy, my fears, my love.

The walnut casket, with it's bright brass bars, glistened in the sunlight. The flower arrays spread around and draped over it did nothing to disguise the loss, the horror, that I felt inside. Even surrounded by my only living relatives, her and my closest friends, and a few choice co-workers, both of hers and mine, I felt, for the first time in my entire life, alone. Susan was gone.

- - -

Nine weeks. Nine weeks ago, we had been so happy, still so much in love after all these years, still smiling at each other, still making slow, passionate love three or more times a week, still going on our little dates. Nine weeks ago, everything seemed normal. Oh, she'd been a little more tired lately, but that happens when you hit 60, as she had done just four months ago. But besides that, we didn't have a clue.

Eight weeks ago, she'd gone into the doctors to try to adjust whatever medication out of her change of life pills he'd started that caused her fatigue. He hadn't been concerned, but he couldn't see how they were related, so he order blood tests.

Six weeks ago, the results came back. The serious, concerned voice of the doctor calling and asking us both to come in. Tests and more tests before us. I remember her crying in my arms as we got the news. Stage 4. No chance, we'd caught it far too late. Six months, he said. She barely made it five weeks.

Five weeks ago we were still in the bargaining stage. Chemo! Radiation! Something... give us something. So Susan started Chemo. I held her hand, and her hair, as she threw up. She lost weight, then she lost her frosted golden hair. She slowly lost hope.

Four weeks ago, we stopped love making. She was too nauseous, too much pain. I held her at night, while she quietly wept, both from fear, for her, the kids, and for me, and from pain, from the Chemo. I remember the conversation we had after the third round, at 2 am, in our big four poster bed, the site of so many happy and joyous moments over the years. No more. She could take no more. I stayed strong, for her, as she had taught me... but inside, I died. It was the first time I actually accepted that I was going to lose her.

I'd always known I was likely to outlive her, the sixteen, nearly seventeen, year age difference had strongly suggested that. She'd even told me many times when we'd discussed "the far future" that she hoped she went first, that she didn't know how she'd take losing me. She had, at the time, twenty years earlier, joked she'd throw herself into the grave with me if I went first, though I reminded her that with our three kids, we needed to be there for them, and for their children.

But realizing that "the far future" was months, or less, away hurt. I was only 43. That's too young to be a widower, to young to lose the love of my life, the mother of my children.

Three weeks ago, she rallied. We had a big family dinner, but invited our friends and neighbors. I remember Susan's smile; the smile was nearly as radiant as the one she gave me the day I told her I wanted her to be my wife. She beamed with pride over the family she'd made, how good looking (her words) our sons were, how beautiful our daughter.

That night, even as tired as she was, even as much pain as she was in, she begged me to make love to her again; she needed to feel the closeness, the love, the normality of what had been our life. The gentle murmurs of pleasure were low, especially compared to how vocal she'd been most of our time together. I'd done my best to fire every pleasure sensor in her body during those late night hours; It reminded me more of some of the more sensual lovemaking "lost weekends" we'd had during our earliest days, before Brandon. I took it slow, as if she was made of the finest china. She urged me to take her, to remind her that she had given herself to me body and soul twenty five years ago. She reminded me I was hers to use, as she was mine. The third, and final, session that night was a slow, languid climb up the hill, staring into each other's eyes, her legs wrapped around me, her arms around my neck, mine around her, holding her tightly to me, as we kissed, snuggled, licked, nipped, smiled, and sighed, lasting over an hour before I finally inundated her with the evidence of my love for her.

It was a memory, I knew, meant to keep me warm at night for these long future days of emptiness, a gift she was giving to me. It wasn't the last time we made love, that had been only four days before her passing a week ago.... but it was the last session she was able to hide her discomfort enough that I was able to truly feel the depths of her love for me.

She went down quickly after that night; perhaps that had taken too much from her, though over those last three weeks, she was the one begging me to make love to her, to, as she put it, send her to eternity knowing how wonderful our love had been; I would have been content just to hold her, feeling her warmth against mine, the soft satin of her skin against my chest. But she begged, even emotionally blackmailed me, saying things like "Don't you still want me?" and "I need to feel you again." to pull down my fears of hurting her.

In the end, our last time was short, but sweet, as I held her up in my arm in her favorite cowgirl position. Weak, but still loving, I'm not sure if she fell asleep or actually passed out after her final orgasm. I do know the contented smile on her lovely face as I laid her gently back down, wrapping my arms around her.

It was the same look on her face four days later, as she whispered to me, "I love you Tommy. Thank you for the life we've had, thank you for loving me as much as I've loved you." I felt an icy grip of pain on my heart at her words, and it's meaning, knowing that she hadn't meant to hurt me, didn't even know she had. But they were her last words, as she closed her eyes and slowed her ragged breathing. The smile brightened, just a little, when I whispered back to her, "It's been my honor to be blessed with your love."

A short moment later, she gasped in pain. And she was gone.

- - -

".... and gently wipe every tear from your eyes. Amen. May almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. Go in the peace of Christ -THANKS BE TO GOD." The words being intoned by priest brought me back out of my thoughts to the here and now.

As the men performing the work duties slowly lowered the casket, I felt Cassandra lean in to me and whisper, "Dad, we'll get through this. You know we will. Stay strong, just a little longer, for mom." David gently squeezed my shoulder, hearing the words of his sister just loud enough for we four. The gentle reassurance was echoed by the accompanying squeeze of my left hand by Brandon.

As I sat there, I thought back on my life as a whole, growing up with my Mom and Dad as a child, then later Mom, my Grandfather, Paul, and my Grandmother, Mary. It had been a wonderful, if sad, sometimes, childhood, with love everywhere. I'd grown into that love, even reveled in it as a child and later as a teen.

- - -

My dad, Tom, had started things, almost 45 years ago. He had been 27, a hotshot just out of the Navy, single and in town for his new job. He never realized that the beautiful blonde girl in the bar he found her in was underage, using a good fake ID. With his charm, honed over years of chasing women (his words; he told me the story often enough after I was twelve) all around the world, a new girl in every port, to use the phrase, the naive young 16 year old was putty. He always told me it was love at first sight for him, he was smitten with her from the moment she introduced herself.

In retrospect, he told me, it was the worst thing he'd ever done, and the greatest; he'd found mom, the love of his life. Per the both of them, nothing happened other than a bit of heavy petting and kissing that first week, when he found her there in the early evenings. He never realized that her "I have to leave by 10:00" line meant because of a curfew. I've seen photos of her during that time, and even remember her myself not long after; she sure as heck looked older than the, then, drinking age of 18.

He was her first; how could he know how young she was? He didn't learn that out until a month later, when she was in tears, telling him about the new life they had created. It was only when he said he'd do the honest thing and marry her that he found out her true age.

My grandfather, years later, told me of the conversation that followed. He'd beaten my father, who refused to defend himself, for a good five minutes before my grandmother and mom managed to calm him down. Even bleeding, with what turned out to be a broken nose and a cracked rib, dad asked for permission to marry mom. The incongruity of the bleeding, prone man, begging for his daughter's hand had somehow soothed my grandfather enough that he accepted what had happened.

Mom was a Junior in High School when I was born. She and dad were living in a small apartment less than a mile from my grandparent's house. Based on my experience with the births of my children, they must have really struggled during those first couple of years. My earliest date-able memory is of my mom's High School Graduation a year and a half later.

Dad worked as an industrial electrician those years, using some of the skills he'd picked up in the Navy. The Dodge plant in town made good use of his skills; mom, on the other hand, went to the local college, the same school I would, one day, attend for a year. During the day, I spent my time with my grandmother, who'd always been a stay at home mom when mom was in school.

Life was good. We moved out of that apartment when I was eight, and there was a lot of love. Considering how big of an age difference there was, and how they came together over me, they were in love. Mom constantly giggled and smiled around dad, and he had the biggest grin on his face most of the time. "I have the prettiest young wife around." was something I heard more than once in my life. He adored her, and she was in love, too.

The house we bought was closer to her work, working as a nurse, but much further from his. It felt strange, those years, not seeing my grandparents every day, only on the weekends, since they were now over thirty miles away. It was the first "sad time" in mine and my mother's life. I had grown up to that point with Paul and Mary constantly being in my life, day in, day out.

Five years in, and they were still happy and in love. Most kids probably don't want to hear their parents making love; I heard it most nights. I heard it that last night, too, and in retrospect, it might be partially why what happened, happened.

I was thirteen, listening to them in the next room that evening. For some reason, although not THAT uncommon, they were still going at 1:00 in the morning; I'd fallen asleep, only to be woken by the gentle knocking on the wall and my mom's muffled screams when the phone rang (this was before cell phones were that common).

What I learned later was that there had been a problem, and a number of machinery had suddenly stopped working at the plant; they were calling ALL of the electricians to come in, even those off shift, to troubleshoot what had happened. Normally, Dad wouldn't have been awake until 6:45, but instead, with absolutely no sleep and what must have been a tad bit of exhaustion for the 41 year old after such a prolonged night of passion, he got dressed.

I heard his last words to my mom, even as he tried to keep it low so as to not wake me.

"I'll call you in the morning to let you know what they're going to do for my hours, and what time I'll be home. Go to sleep, baby. I love you."

And with that, Dad exited our lives. The doorbell ringing four hours later was what woke me up in the morning. Mom stumbled to get dressed, and I could hear her muttering about rude people as she went to answer it. I don't know what was said. I don't know if she fell to her knees right away, or sank slowly. She was on her knees crying by the time I was able to get dressed enough to come find out why she was screaming.

Dad's life insurance didn't want to pay out until the lawsuit against the overnight delivery driver's company finished. There was always the extenuating circumstance that Dad never slowed down; it was likely he was too slow to react when the truck pulled out in front of him. But pay out they did, $200K, doubled due to the accident. And the company paid, too, to the tune of an additional $500K.

It was small consolation for losing my best friend, and my mom losing her husband and lover.

All told, with his retirement savings, and with selling the house and moving back in with my grandparents, mom banked $1.1M. Even now, that's a respectable amount, but thirty years ago? She stopped working at the doctor's office, to concentrate on raising me. Paul and Mary gave their daughter and grandson a firm emotional backstop as we recovered from our loss.

Two doting women were around me all the time I wasn't in school. Over time, mom began to smile again, and the world lit up again. My pain, too, started to ease, and after a year, I didn't hear her cry herself to sleep every night. Oh, she still cried herself to sleep, sometimes... but it wasn't every night any more. And Grandpa Paul, who had grown to feel my father had been a son to him, took over the job of being my male role model.

It was the following summer I had my first girlfriend. By that point, I was 15. She was a year older than me, though in my class in school. I'd known her since we still lived in the apartment, but we'd always before just been friends, and I'd of course had a lot less contact after we'd moved to the house.

It was so heartbreaking. All of my thoughts centered on the cute, raven haired, Tracy, how her lips felt, the feelings I felt when held her. It was glorious! It was puppy love. I pulled away from my two strong women, and to this day, I still regret it.

Tracy broke up with me at the end of that summer, between our Freshman and Sophomore years, for what, it feels, is the stupidest possible reason; because she had a drivers license, and I didn't, she had always driven us on our dates. She wanted her boyfriend to squire HER around, not the other way. I had paid for the dates, but she'd had to borrow her parent's car and drive. It didn't matter than in five months, I'd be driving, too. She was young, and wanted everything, all at once. Her next three boyfriends drove her, until one wrapped daddy's Caddy around a pole. By that point, of course, I was driving, too, so she tried to come back to me. I guess I was as immature as she was when I shot that down, as her being "shallow". Not my finest moment, as my mom reminded me.

In fairness, I wasn't in a good place when she came back. When I pulled away from my mother and grandparents as I entered those tough teen years in earnest, I could tell the loss of connection with me hurt my mother. She had never dated since dad's death; she would tell me, "I don't want anyone else. I have two of the three greatest guys I've ever met still in my life, with you and your grandfather." But even that wasn't to be for too long. Dating Tracey that summer had stolen precious time and focus from the two strong women raising me.

The night history repeated itself, I was the one who answered the door; it was just past midnight, and mom and I had become increasingly worried at how late my grandparents were from their little "mini-date" of dinner and a movie; we'd expected them back by nine or ten, and had stayed up to greet them when they got home.

We found out later that my grandfather had had a massive coronary heart attack while driving. He was probably dead before the car rolled. Grandma Mary died on the way to the hospital. And just like that, we were alone, and my already well off mother was actually moderately wealthy, but still only 33 years old.

- - -

"Dad, dad.. you need to thank everyone for coming." Brandon whispered to me. Coming back to the present, I stood up. I wiped away the tears that had built up with my handkerchief, and turned to the gathered throng.

"On behalf of Susan, myself, Brandon, Cassandra, and David, I want to thank you all for coming. We're going back to the house, now, and if you wish to come by for a bit, please feel welcome. It's heartwarming to feel your sympathy and to know that Susan and I touched so many lives. I feel honored that you came. Thank you." I intoned. I lowered my head, took my daughter's hand again, and helped her stand. Together, with her brothers behind us, we walked to the waiting limo, shaking hands with a few well wishers on the way.

In the car, the three kids sat across from me, all three staring at me as we rode in silence for a few minutes After that pause, Brandon turned, and put up the partition window, while Cassandra and David grabbed hands, holding them tightly. All of them turned to me with glistening eyes as I felt the grief once again wash over me.

The silence was almost enough to envelope the slight amount of road noise that came into the compartment as the limo glided along. It pulled me back into my memories again.

- - -

Prom was marking the end of my High School years; I had just turned 18, and would be graduating in two weeks. Mom had taken a lot of pains to ensure that I would have a good Prom. My then on again/off again girlfriend, Julie, had agreed to go with me months earlier, at Valentines, when we'd been in an on-phase. Julie and I hadn't made it even three weeks more before once again breaking up, but we did agree we'd still be each other's Prom date; we were still friends, and it wasn't the first time we'd broken up, only to come back together. I kept making arrangements, as did she. The fly in the ointment was her new boyfriend. He did not appreciate that I was taking "his" girl to Prom, and he continually worked her to drop me and go with her. When word got around from some mutual friends that she was being pressured, I took the initiative.

"Julie, I know we promised we'd still go to Prom, but I'm not going to force you to keep your promise. I know Mike wants to take you, and time's getting short to get a date. If...." I started the phone conversation.