We, the Haunted

It’s just another day.

That’s a lie we tell ourselves, hoping one day we’ll actually believe it.

And here I am, standing alone in a field of headstones.

I always felt graveyards were a waste. A waste of space. Of land. Of resources. Putting our bodies into more and more preposterous containers, denying nature its efficient absorption and refashioning of our parts into something of value.

A waste, a disruption and a folly. Our bodies still disintegrate, no matter how fancy our casket.

But one doesn’t bring that up to the bereft. They ache for comfort in ritual, imagining it will lessen the grieving.

As I said ...

Folly.

So here I am, before this headstone, fresh zinnias laying at its base.

My favorite flower.

So beautiful.

I hate it.

***

In our lounge, Leanne stands before the mantle.

Again.

Looking at the framed photos resting on the ledge.

She’s frozen, staring this time at the one taken in our backyard just last year.

I come up behind her and regard it as well.

We look so happy. Her hair pulled into a perfect ponytail. Our boy, Travis, sweet Travis, just turned nine, grinning. His hair matches hers to a tee. And me, with my jawline looking extra sharp due to the slight angle I’m at from holding the phone out to take the picture.

I set my hand gently on her shoulder.

She closes her eyes. Bows her head.

I want to say something. But I can’t. Words don’t come. What is there to say, anyway?

I cannot remove her pain.

So, I remove my hand.

Walk on.

Leave her to her private grief.

***

I find myself standing in the middle of my home office, studying the objects on the bookcase.

The baseball from the time I caught a fly ball when Travis was four.

The framed certificate reading “George Monroe - Best Dad Ever” with a little trophy on it. From Travis when he was six.

Moments in time captured in memories, recalled by these trinkets.

And all of them connected to Travis.

As if on cue, I sense something and turn around.

Travis appears in the doorway.

I fight with everything I have to force a smile, hoping it will help; that it will make happiness flow. Be felt.

Be real.

Travis just stands there. His eyes so sad, it breaks my heart.

He turns and disappears down the hallway.

I just stand there, staring at the emptiness he’s left behind.

Wishing there was something I could do.

Anything.

***

I come to find Leanne in the kitchen, now, chopping vegetables at the counter. She stops suddenly as I enter behind her. I see her turn to look at the dining room table.

I turn as well.

I can see the three of us laughing as we play a board game at the table. The laughter reverberates, dreamlike.

Such joy.

A wistful sigh from the Leanne in the kitchen turns my attention back to her.

I see her wipe away the tiny tear slipping down her cheek. She returns to chopping the vegetables.

I look back at the dining table.

It’s empty. No one there, now. Nothing but the hollow echo of Leanne chopping vegetables.

I turn back. Take a step towards her.

Stop.

Again.

What can I say?

I turn back to see Travis behind me, watching Leanne as well. He looks miserable.

I need to say something. Reach out to him. Hold onto him.

But before I can, Travis turns and disappears.

Again.

I hate this.

***

I stand at the foot of our bed. Leanne lies curled up beneath the covers, already asleep. Mercifully. She looks so tiny, tucked to the one side of the large bed.

I can’t help myself. I come to her side of the bed and kneel. Reach out and let my finger gently slide some stray hair from her forehead.

Did I ever love her as much as I do at this very moment?

I can’t imagine.

***

Another day.

Back in the graveyard.

Standing near that same headstone.

Different, though.

So different.

Today, I can’t help but get the smallest hint of a smile.

I’m watching Leanne stand before the headstone.

Travis at her side.

He kneels and places fresh zinnias on the marker which—aside from the necessary dates—reads “Beloved Father and Husband ~ George Monroe”.

Travis rises and takes Leanne’s hand.

They have each other.

My smile gets wider.

I realize I don’t hate this so much.

No.

I don’t hate this at all.

This …

… I love.