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, around last Christmastime, I caught a glimpse of him
one day across a crowded department store. I was shopping. He looked old.
But of course, I hadn't seen him in years, and time alters. The paper said he was
eighty-two. A ripe enough age.
Died peacefully at home, surrounded by
family. That meant an expected death, which likely meant a preceding period of
decline, mitigated quite possibly by pain-relieving drugs (hence
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
Preceded in death by . . . his parents, a brother, an ex-wife.
Survivors include . . . Another ex-wife. Many nieces and nephews. A
Huh. I folded the paper up and tossed it aside. I didn't even think,
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 we met. I was 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 protégé – or if he did
want me to, and was just waiting patiently for that to happen. We'd be together a few
years, and then I'd outgrow 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, his shuffling round the kitchen and down the hall in his socks, the
feel of his back. These memories flashed through my mind; evaporated – for good, in
a certain sense: How could they come back the same way 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,
these people, these 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 today, looking all around me, staring
at the buildings, the people, the trees, the pavement, the sky, I understood that all of 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. Nothing shared.
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.
It was in the trees, the people, the pavement, the sky. Everywhere I looked was our mutual
oblivion. And oblivion – oblivion made me want to laugh. I did laugh.
I looked all around me and laughed, laughed because everything suddenly looked so wonderfully, horribly, strange . . .
~ END ~