The Insufferable Loss: Time & Youth

ENTERED INTO THE 750 Word Project 2024

November 25th, EVERY YEAR

Last night was a rough night for sleep. I knew it would be. I'd doubled my dosage of Zolaft knowing my anxiety wouldn't be eased for this coming day.

I reached over touching Elaine on her shoulder and she reflexively flinched, turning away from me, drawing the covers over her head to then curl herself into an even tighter, unwelcoming ball.

Visits to numerous therapists all yielded essentially the same opinions: "Reconnect to yourselves. You're still young. Communicate. This is surmountable." None were of help.

I washed and shaved in the shower and upon exiting noticed blood dripping at my feet from nicking myself deeply. I hadn't even felt a thing. Wouldn't have noticed either because looking in a mirror at myself now is akin to surveying an impoverished nation after a devastating natural disaster.

I returned to our bedroom knowing I'd find Elaine in the same position not moved an inch. This is how she'd spend the day, shunning interaction and sustenance, angry, in pain, wanting to lash out. I felt for her for I had long left that place and chose to no longer comfort myself with that type of hurt. So I left her, alone, saying nothing, knowing anything said would be of no help to her anyway.

I endured the hours long ride to our hometown, passing the library where we first met. Driving by the river trail, park, and bowling alley - places of past enjoyment for Elaine and I.

I passed Zesto's Deli - us sharing sundaes together there being the last time I could recall us all laughing together. Familiarity breeds contempt and continually seeing these places later in our day-to-day travels became unbearably toxic, prompting Elaine and I to move.

I stopped to the local florist asking for 3 red roses.

"It's cheaper buying a dozen," said the freckled teen working the counter.

"Just 3," I replied flatly, taken aback at how rudely short my words were, but thankful my curt response stopped further inquiries into my specific selection.

I parked across from the quaint little house at 1423 Karlaney and sat. We had painted the house a bright yellow becauseYou Are My Sunshine was the joyful song we'd share signifying between us our hopes of a lifetime together, the settling of roots, and anticipated expansion into a large family. Life, here, had now moved on with the optimistic yellow replaced with practical aluminum siding.

Two young children come running from the backyard laughing, tripping, playing tag. The youthful exuberance they share before me, in front our former home, shreds my heart to pieces and forces me to hang my head in shame. I should've said something, anything, to Elaine!

"I'm calling the cops!" shouted a man startling me, "Why are you staring at my children?!"

"No. It's not... I wasn't," I stammered to then fortuitously ask, "There still pink ducks wallpapering the bathroom? I once lived here."

My inquiry successfully placating him from protective father into beaming homeowner.

"We remodeled! Expanded everything for the kids. Care to see?"

Going inside that home was an offer too painful to accept. I apologized for scaring his family, politely refused his hospitality and continued my planned journey.

Driving just a mile up road, I stop at the elementary school and take with me 2 roses.

Walking across the empty playground, I find a bench tucked away on the shady backside. Time and lack of weatherproofing hadn't been kind to the wooden slats. If I worked some extra overtime, maybe I could send funds for repairs.

Wear from children's playing shoes hadn't been kind to the plaque placed beneath the bench either. The inscription had mostly faded into a greenish-bronze rust. I leave a rose atop with only the date, November 25th, being legible.

I thought of the father back at our former home - protective, loving. I should've warned him how easy it was to fail. How dads, try as we may, can't bubblewrap loved ones from potential harm.

The memorial tree planted had been uprooted for a widened road at the school's entrance, but I still knew the spot where years ago I'd frantically ran from home to find our first and only born. I laid down the second rose where stood now a crosswalk with flashing, illuminated stoplights.

"You are my sunshine, my only..."

I stop, sobbing, unable to sing to completion.

I return home failing again to visit and leave the last bought rose at her gravesite.