As she stopped to catch her breath, she turned and looked back. Her golden curls bouncing down to her shoulder and then back up to tickle her jaw. Delicate giggles slipped through her thin pink lips. And her small hands held on to the elegant ruffles of her summer dress.

It was painful to hear her.

I pulled the hot cardboard mug to my mouth and closed my eyes as the velvety liquid slipped down my throat. Swimming in heavy sadness, I willed my eyes to swallow back the tears. Somehow they did. And I felt the weight of my worries drip down into the hollow hole that was my heart.

She was on the swings now, her porcelain legs pumping her higher and higher into the sky. And I wondered what it might be like to stand behind her. To touch her as I pushed her back.

It was painful to watch her.

How do you say goodbye to someone you’ve never met?

I scanned the crowd of parents and found her. Sitting across the way. She knew I was watching. She lowered her head, gesturing to me. Letting me know it was okay. And I saw her look away as we both stood. I took a deep breath and saw her rub her eyes as she watched me.

I think it was painful for her to watch me.

“Ann, honey, can you stop swinging for just a moment? I want you to meet a friend of mine,” she said to the little girl.

“But, mommy, I’m so high!” She yelled back, giggling as each thrust of her little legs brought her to new heights.

And I remembered what it had felt like, hovering and feeling weightless just before you plummeted back down. That tiny tickle that formed in your belly.

“Ann,” her mother said again, her tone more serious, “you can swing again later.”

Ann. I was so happy they’d given her that name. So happy they’d given her this life.

The little girl dragged her shoes along the sandy playground, bringing herself to a stop. She hopped off the swing and tentatively approached her mother and me – the stranger.

“Ann, honey, this is a friend of mine. She shares your name.”

She extended her hand and I could see the indentations of the chain in her flesh. “Hi,” she said.

I placed my hand in hers and squeezed ever so lightly, “Hi,” I said back.

I looked at her mother for help. For guidance. For something. But the little girl helped instead.

“Your necklace is pretty,” she said, fidgeting again with those ruffles.

My hand made its way to my neck and my fingers roamed along the bumpy surface of the locket. Traced along the ridges of the etched floral engraving.  I unclasped the chain and kneeled down to her, “May I?” I asked, both her mother and her.

Again, her mother nodded to me and I saw the redness which now lined her soggy eyes.

“Really?!” Ann squealed in delight as I moved forward and placed it around her neck.

The dimples in her cheeks deepened as she brought the locket up to her eyes and then smiled at me. “Thank you,” she said.

“You are very welcome.” I smiled back.

“Mommy, look!” Leaning forward, she placed her hands on either side of my face, her soft touch roaming over the indentations in my own cheeks. “We share these too!”

I was happy my hair – what was left of it – was tucked away under my hat. And happy that my eyes weren’t as bright as they used to be. So she wouldn’t notice what else we shared.

She wrapped her hands around my neck and hugged me. And I took a deep breath – powder and flowers – and wanted to remember that scent for how many ever days I had left.

Her mother’s chest heaved in sorrow and she dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. But I managed to keep mine dry. I cried secretly inside.

I mouthed “thank you,” to her mother before releasing my own grip. “It was nice to meet you, Ann,” I said, my voice cracking as I did.

“Don’t go,” she looked at me,  then at her mother, and then back down at her locket.

“I have to go. But I’m glad I got to meet you.”

She pouted, leaning into her mother’s leg. And for a moment longer, I let her image soak into my memory, before I turned and walked away.

I let the tears come this time. I let my shoulders slump forward. Let my hands wander to my belly where I’d carried her before I’d had to give her away. Before the reality of my sickness had set in. They’d told me I wouldn’t make it 6 months. But I’d lived in tortured agony for 6 years.

But all of it no longer mattered. My time was here. And I finally got my chance. I closed the gate to the playground and waved from afar. And as I turned the corner, I whispered under my breath as I wept, “Goodbye and… I love you.”

In this cruel world I shuffle, barely walk
And with no one could I talk
Loneliness cuts and breaks my soul
I fall into that deep, black hole
And in the darkness I cry and weep
Sadness and doubt, the friends I keep
Just as it seems this storm will not end
Deep into my heart you descend
You open my eyes, awake me from sleep
Filled with your love, my heart, it does leap
Piece by piece, you stitch back my soul
Mending me, filling me, making me whole
Freed from my silence, I finally can talk
With you, for eternity, I will walk

Staring down into its stark black, rippling surface, Christian got lost in his own distorted reflection. Got lost in the reflection of his own swirling thoughts. And he sat there for what seemed like eternity, when in reality only a moment had passed, contemplating how he got here. Not to this coffee shop, no, but to this point in his life. This point in his life where he desired everything and, yet, nothing seemed attainable.

He shook his head and brought the not-quite-clean porcelain mug housing his not-quite-worth-it $8.00 coffee to his lips. And as the scorching liquid danced down his throat, he found it ironic and symbolic that it tasted as he felt this gloomy Tuesday morning – bitter.

Six months ago was when everything had changed for Christian. When the hands of fate or perhaps the devil shook his world upside down. Shook him so hard that just about everything inside of him fell out. And every day since, he desperately clung to the tiny bits of sanity and hope that remained.

Placing his mug back down onto the scratched and beaten surface, he muttered quietly to himself as the dark wooden table rocked back and forth. Six months of complaining and they still hadn’t fixed it. In fact, he was convinced they were making it more imbalanced just to torture him. But, then again, maybe it was just his imagination. Maybe everything in his world was a fabricated byproduct of the thoughts that seemingly crippled him.

Holding his book out in front of him, he chuckled slightly as he read, what he thought, anyways, was one of the most bizarre and most brilliant of chapters ever written: “My mother is a fish.” He’d read this chapter so many times before. And he brought the book with him – his favorite book – not to read and savor the words on each page, but to find some sort of comfort as he glanced over its brown and worn pages savoring something else – her.

Sitting at the same table she always did, she faced him. Her hair draped over her shoulders, so silky, so smooth, like melted chocolate. Her long, tanned and toned legs crossed elegantly. Her worn cowboy boots occasionally dancing to their own beat. Lifting the mug to her lips, she looked off in the distance, in his direction, but not at him, through him. And in between sips and stares, her fingers would hurriedly type into her phone.

Christian had her movements memorized, which, on those lonely nights, was both a blessing and a curse, as when he closed his eyes, he could see her. He could see her full, pouty lips kissing that mug. Could see those eyes, those sparkling blue eyes that held so much life and even a little sadness, staring. Except in his dreams, they stared not out into the distance, but at him. How he longed to have her just look at him. Of course, he also longed for much more. But the very basic of human interaction is what he so desired. And it is this basic of human interaction he was denied each and every day. And this denial… this longing… it was killing him.

A small wave of nausea washed over Christian and a few beads of sweat dripped down the side of his face. He motioned for the plump, middle-aged waitress.

“Water. Can I get a glass of ice water?” He asked.

He gulped the cool liquid down, soothing the worry that gurgled in the pit of his stomach.

Six months ago, he’d met her in the produce section of the local grocery. They had both reached for the same tomato, their hands briefly touching. Still, he could feel her softness against him. And in this brief meeting, she had stirred something great deep within him. Something he had felt mildly before with others, but never, ever this strongly. And so quickly. He tried to forget her over the course of the ensuing days, but he found his feelings only intensified. Growing and shaping within him into this overwhelming cancerous mass which threatened to nibble away at all that he was.

A week later, he found it, well, interesting, that he saw her in the coffee shop down the street from his home. And he still cursed the shy man that lived inside of him for not walking over to her then, that day, and introducing himself. Instead, he took a seat at the table across the way from her and waited. Waited for her to glance up and recognize him. To smile. To remember the feel of their skin against one another. Waited for her to walk over to him. For her to notice him.

It never happened.

And it was as she walked out from the coffee shop that day that his world changed. Her causal ignorance to his existence began to gnaw at him. And life began to tease him, as she continued to return each and every single day. And each and every single day he prayed to whoever would listen. Begged for just one quick glance. For one small smile. But… nothing. It was like he was… invisible.

The memories of all the missed opportunities over these past six months began to slam down onto him, like a cement boulder being dropped from the heavens. His need for her choked out his better judgment and he slammed the book down onto the table. And he stood, his body shaking, and looked right at her. And, finally, for the first time, she looked back.

Her phone then promptly interrupted what he thought would finally be the moment he had dreamt about over and over each and every lonely night.

“Hello? John?” She spoke into the receiver, her head cocked slightly, her brow slightly creased. “Yes. I’m leaving now. Wait,” and she paused as she walked past Christian, looking directly into his eyes, “till I tell you about this weird man.”

And just like that. She’d done it. She’d shoved that knife all the way through and pulled it back out, taking with her his tattered and broken heart.

Christian fell to the floor as a series of tremors overtook him. And the tears that had bottled up inside of him came pouring out. Demented reasoning began to overtake him and his hands slid their way through his sweaty hair, tugging as they did. Indiscernible mutterings escaped his lips and he rocked back and forth. Trying to come to terms with the fact that she didn’t see him and all that he was, and all that he could be, in the same light as he had seen her, seen them. She was blind to the dreams he had dreamt, and the life he hoped for.

“I think you need this,” the plump, middle-aged waitress said as she leaned down and handed him another glass of ice water. “You know, you’re just as blind as her,” she said as she walked away.

But caught up in the flurry of emotions that entrapped him, he was not only blind to the world around him, but deaf to it as well.

**

Across the way, seated in the corner, she sat. In the same table she had for the past six months. And for the past six months she watched him achingly long for something that would never be. And each and every time she saw him break and crumble, she wished and prayed to whoever would listen that one day, he’d look over and see her. And realize she was the glue he’d need to mend his broken soul.

Even though she knew today was not going to be that day, and maybe not even tomorrow or the following day, still, she held onto the hope of her own demented dreams. And as she brought the not-quite-clean porcelain mug housing her not-quite-worth-it $8.00 coffee to her lips, she smiled and thought…

It’s okay, he’s worth the wait.

The door barely closes behind me before the tears fall straight down to the floor. And I slide down into the puddle of my sorrow. And I sit there heaving and clutching at the part of my chest where my heart used to be. The swirling despair and utter disappointment of all that could be and never was has nibbled it all away.

Somehow I pull myself up and I shuffle around the house. Pretending to care about feeding the fish. Pretending to care about the bills that are stacked up on the counter. Pretending not to notice the picture frame. The frame that could have been filled with memories and dreams. But instead it is, just like me – empty.

Nothing happened differently today. And that’s the problem. Nothing changes. I hope. I try. I believe. And still, it is just me. In this house. With the fish. The bills. The frame of empty dreams.

I look out the window and glance up and down the street. At the warm glow that spills out from the neighboring houses. And I wonder how many of them are laughing and smiling. How many of them even know I exist. How many would notice if I didn’t.

Twirling my wine glass, I watch the dark red liquid swirl and dance. Even this wine is prettier than me. And suddenly I can’t bear to drink it. So I let it fall and crash below. And I slide down to the floor and wallow in the river of my insecurities.

I sit there for several moments. Blinking. Breathing. Trying to hold on. But, the truth is. I’m tired… of everything. And overwhelmed… by nothing. The soft moonlight filters in through the skylight above and breaks my trance and I glance up and smile. Not at the light. Not at anything other than the beam that I never thought of before.

Somehow I pull myself up and I shuffle around the house. To the dining room where I retrieve a chair. To the closet where I retrieve the rope. To the living room where I retrieve that empty frame.

I climb up on the chair and throw the rope around the beam. And then around my neck. And for the first time in a long time, something holds me close. Something comforts me. I close my eyes and feel its scratchiness against my delicate flesh. But it doesn’t hurt. It warms me and makes me believe that today will be different.

Looking around I say goodbye to the house, the fish, the stack of bills, and I hold the frame close. My foot teases the edge and I bite down on my lip and take a deep breath. And I leap toward my dreams, hearing the crash of the forgotten ones hit the floor below. And this time, I don’t slide down into a puddle or river of despair, I close my eyes and let my body just swim in the sea of darkness. And as the last of my life shakes its way out of me, I realize I was right. No one came to find me. No one noticed I was here. And as the last of my tears fall straight down to the floor, I still wonder…

Will anyone miss me when I’m gone?

I guess I’ll never know.

I twirl the flower between my soft fingers and wonder where I picked it up, because for the life of me I can’t remember. I can’t remember anything, really. Except for those words. The words that had slipped through those lips. The lips I had savored on so many occasions. The lips I’d never taste again.

I start to pluck at the delicate petals – one, “he loves me,” two, “he loves me not.” But that’s where I stop. Because there is no need to keep plucking. I’ve already reached my answer. And I laugh a little. Wishing I’d found this flower months ago. Plucked it and found my answer then.

Big sloppy droplets from the heavens start to pour down on me. Me, in my white chiffon blouse. I don’t have an umbrella with me. Never do. Perfect. Everyone around me starts to run and take cover under anything they can find – overhangs, briefcases. But I just keep moving at my same pace. And I know everyone can see through my blouse now. And I don’t care. The rain feels good, actually. Cleansing and liberating. I look up at the sky as I walk down the usually crowded sidewalk and find myself wishing it would rain harder. Scrub everything away. But life is never that easy, is it?

I’m so preoccupied staring at the sky that I don’t avoid the metal grate like I normally do. My shoe gets caught in one of the openings and snaps. And I laugh again. Because what else can I do? Cry? I’m tired of crying. I’m at Broadway and Main and there’s a trashcan there. I take off my shoes and toss them into the bin. And I stop for a moment. Staring at it. Wishing I could toss away more. Rid myself of these memories. Or maybe not even the memories, but at least the pain that comes with them.

The blinking sign says “Walk” and I do. Barely. My feet slosh as I move and I feel myself stepping over hard mounds of gum and god knows what else. It’s gross, what I feel. And I’m not talking about what’s on the ground, I’m talking about what crawls around my soul, my heart, this empty shell of a once happy girl.

I’m inside my apartment and I don’t remember walking here. I can’t remember anything, really. Drip. Drip. There’s a puddle forming on the floor around me – I’m soaked. And I feel something in-between my fingers. I look down and realize I’m holding a flower – half plucked, wet, and broken. Just like me.

I keep holding it and walk over to him and lay it on his silky black surface. I take a seat. Close my eyes. And I listen – it’s beautiful. Tragic sounding, but beautiful. And as my body sways to our creation, I realize that it may always be just me in this life, but I’ll never be lonely so long as we’re together – me, and my 88 friends.

This story is dedicated to Lynn…

Sheets of rain drench my body but fail to dilute the thickness that swims around me. Circling my very soul like a hungry shark, sadness nibbles at every inch of my being. My feet sink down into the earth beneath me as I walk, barefoot, in the fields surrounding the house. My house. The house I grew up in. And with each step, I have to tug harder to release my feet from the mud; my steps feel heavy, just like my heart.

Thunder rolls across the land, shaking me, and lightning drips down from the sky toward the earth below. And this vicious storm reminds me that I am still alive and small and insignificant. That I have no power in this world.

I try to recall the sound of his voice in my mind, and I do, only it is faint and I barely detect it. Already, even this is fading from me too. A strong ache wraps itself around my heart, suffocating it. And I stop walking and close my eyes. Squeezing them shut, I force my mind to bring him to me. His smile. His eyes. The way his face scrunched up when he laughed. The way his lips would curve into the slightest of smiles when he said my name, even when he was mad at me.

The images and memories torment me. And I picture him there. Alone. Leaving this world. Leaving me. And it cripples me. Falling to the ground, I tilt my head to the heavens and clasp my hands near my chest, and pray. Ask. Beg. Hoping that not just anyone hears me, but that he hears me. This one last time.

“Please hear me. I love you,” I whisper at the wet sky. 

And something happens. A coincidence, perhaps. But the rain stops. And those dark clouds open up. And the sun smiles down upon me. He smiles down upon me.

I wipe away the grief from my face and smile up at him. “I love you with all my heart, papa. And I will miss you. Always.”