On the Death of an Old Lover




I didn't know he'd died until I read about it in the paper.  Not that it was entirely unexpected; I'd found myself waiting, more days than not these past several months, for his name to show up in the obituaries.  I don't know why.  I hadn't given him more than a passing thought in years.  Then, last Christmas, I caught a glimpse of him across a crowded department store.  He looked old.  But then, I hadn't seen him in years, and time passes.  The paper said he was eighty-two.  A ripe enough age.  Died peacefully at home, surrounded by family.  That meant an expected death, which meant illness, mitigated most likely by pain-relieving drugs (hence peaceful).  All of which probably meant cancer.

Traveled extensively . . . followed by a list of countries, quite a few.  That must have been how he spent his retirement years, traveling.  Well, lucky him!

No, I wasn't jealous really.  Perhaps a little envious.  Like the man who doesn't want to take the time to write but wishes he had written, I would like to have traveled.  Preceded in death by . . . his parents, a brother, an ex-wife.  Survivors include . . .  Another ex-wife.  Many nieces and nephews.  A sister.

Huh.  I closed the paper up and tossed it aside.  I didn't even think, And me.  It wasn't until a few days later that I discovered old memories must have been churned up because bits and pieces of them were starting to surface in my mind.  At various odd moments during the day they would live in me again.  Flashes, a few seconds of time, images left behind.  Bedrooms featured heavily in these.  Late night visits to his office.  A living room floor.  The shower.  The backporch swing.  But also snatches of conversations, cars, restaurants.  Fights, eventually.  Growing dissatisfactions.  I made of him much more than he was, probably.  Taller, more broad-minded, kinder.  I was quite young when met.  Of age, yes; but still very young.  And I never could figure out if he didn't want me to grow up – because then I would no longer be his protege – or if he did want me to outgrow him, and was just waiting patiently for that to happen.  We'd be together a few years, and then I'd leave him.  Perhaps that's what he'd expected, wanted.

I had left him, after three years.  He made me angry.  He made me feel boxed-in and somehow wrong.  But –  But –  The way he touched my breasts.  The way he was so good at oral sex.  What else did I remember?  His look, his particular way of holding himself, of shuffling round the kitchen and down the hall, the feel of his back.  These memories flashed through my mind, evaporated:  how could they come back again, now?  I was walking down the street today when I felt a sudden sense of dislocation, brought on by the knowledge that what I could see, everything I could see, he could not.  These buildings, these cars, people, trees, he could, just a few days ago, have stood beside me and witnessed.  Now he could not.  Now he was (presumably) someplace else, experiencing some other reality.  Which meant that my reality was only one of several, at least.  And to this reality – and to me – he was in all likelihood oblivious, as oblivious to this existence as I was to his.

I was his oblivion.  Walking down the street, looking all around me, staring goggle-eyed at the buildings, the people, the trees, the pavement, the sky, I understood that all this was his oblivion.  Me, and everything around me, his oblivion.  He was here no more.  For him, nothing was here anymore.  There was no past anymore.  This did not make me feel sad.  It only made me feel strange.  The street I walked lay in the gulf between us, he and I, and oblivion was all around me, and it was wonderfully, horribly, strange . . .





~ END ~








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