Beauty and Grief
She found him here before. On the street. Beneath an overpass. Sitting against a column. Face hardened. Cracked. Like the concrete around him. He seemed lifeless, blending in with hardened environment around him. He would look at her, at least she thought he did, but with soulless eyes that gave no gleam of recognition, no hint of past fondness or laughter or friendship. Her heart ached and she wondered if he even had a heart anymore or had it too become like his surroundings of steel and man made stone?
She came empty handed. She used to bring food and water but he wouldn’t touch it. She had made up her mind she would not speak this time. No pleas or entreaties. No arguments to return to those who loved him. He never responded or countered or spoke. How she would rejoice if he just spoke, even screamed as an animal would in pain. She would understand that. There was so much pain. But no, it was as if he were statue. An imitation rather than flesh and blood and emotion and soul. As she moved toward him he was completely motionless and unmoved.
He saw her coming. She was so human that she seemed unearthly, a vision rather than flesh and blood. Animated. Out of place. She had appeared before, in this morgue of his, trying to resurrect the dead. He had perfected his defenses against the pleading words that would soon come. He wouldn’t respond. Ever. At times they had almost broken him. Almost caused him to… but no, he would harden himself and embrace only death. He was already dead. There was no life. What she offered could be taken away. No. Would be taken away.
She was soft and full of life. The resolution on her face as she approached could not hide the signs of laughter that usually animated it nor the sadness that sometimes descended upon it. Now was one of those times. Even at this distance he could see her eyes were brimming with tears, her face reddening slightly.
He was still unmoved as she came closer. Tears spilled as she leaned slightly to kneel beside him. She made no move to wipe them. He could count the tears as they fell from her cheeks. Some across her lips. Some to fall to the hard earth. Some upon his knee. Grief and sadness did not surge or erupt as he knew it could but slowly overflowed through those eyes. She was always a fair sight, but grief that holds to hope and moved by love has a way of transforming even the plainest of women. She seemed almost regal as she settled into the dust and debris beside him in silence. She waited for minutes upon minutes and into hours.
Memories flooded him. Memories that he had fought so hard to suppress. They had hurt him so much because so much had been taken. They were life and joy and dancing and now he held only ashes. A wife, lively and beautiful. Children, playful and full of hope. Gone. Gone in a flash of metal and screaming and silence. Lifeless silence. He choked back against these memories. He fought frantically to push them away.
Maybe she saw the battle come to the surface. Maybe she planned this. Maybe it was instinct. As he grappled inwardly she surprised him. She leaned over and gently kissed his forehead and then held his head against herself. Her tears, for they were still flowing, slowly but continuously, began to water his weathered face. She held him like a mother would her dead child. Unable to accept the lack of warmth in his skin or the unresponsiveness in his eyes. He tasted her grief on his lips; this mix of love and earthiness and hope. Felt the warmth of her body.
He breathed a raspy breath in and then out, as if for the first time.
