Into Dust
This could have gone in multiple categories. However, so as not to spoil the story more than necessary, (and with the point that it's in this category, too late for one point, and the tags to help folks find it years from now will spoil some others) I'll save the more important remarks for the ending.
I hope you find this story interesting. It's been rattling around for five months before I started writing it, then it came through quickly, though it did morph a bit (to work better flow-wise).
- - - - -
I sat in the folding chair, wearing my finest black suit, my shoes showing a spit shine taught to me by my now long gone grandfather, from his days as a pilot in the Army Air Corp. To my left was my oldest son, Brandon, the 23 year old keeping a tight grip my hand. To my right, my 20 year old daughter Cassandra rested her hand on my knee, gently squeezing it every time she realized how close to tears I was. Behind me, with his left hand on my right shoulder and his right hand on Cassandra's left shoulder was Cassandra's twin brother, David. All four of us were dressed in black, holding a single white rose in our laps.
In the distance, I could hear the call of a morning dove, cooing softly in the small copse of woods a hundred feet or so behind us. The sky was a deep azure blue, bluer than I think I'd ever seen here. All around, I could hear a low murmur from the people gathered with us in that grassy field, dotted with upright stone markers. Above us the canopy was still, as if the air was otherwise stagnant on that lazy summer early afternoon.
And all I could see, all I could concentrate on, was what laid before me, the end of my hopes, my dreams, my joy, my fears, my love.
The walnut casket, with it's bright brass bars, glistened in the sunlight. The flower arrays spread around and draped over it did nothing to disguise the loss, the horror, that I felt inside. Even surrounded by my only living relatives, her and my closest friends, and a few choice co-workers, both of hers and mine, I felt, for the first time in my entire life, alone. Susan was gone.
- - -
Nine weeks. Nine weeks ago, we had been so happy, still so much in love after all these years, still smiling at each other, still making slow, passionate love three or more times a week, still going on our little dates. Nine weeks ago, everything seemed normal. Oh, she'd been a little more tired lately, but that happens when you hit 60, as she had done just four months ago. But besides that, we didn't have a clue.
Eight weeks ago, she'd gone into the doctors to try to adjust whatever medication out of her change of life pills he'd started that caused her fatigue. He hadn't been concerned, but he couldn't see how they were related, so he order blood tests.
Six weeks ago, the results came back. The serious, concerned voice of the doctor calling and asking us both to come in. Tests and more tests before us. I remember her crying in my arms as we got the news. Stage 4. No chance, we'd caught it far too late. Six months, he said. She barely made it five weeks.
Five weeks ago we were still in the bargaining stage. Chemo! Radiation! Something... give us something. So Susan started Chemo. I held her hand, and her hair, as she threw up. She lost weight, then she lost her frosted golden hair. She slowly lost hope.
Four weeks ago, we stopped love making. She was too nauseous, too much pain. I held her at night, while she quietly wept, both from fear, for her, the kids, and for me, and from pain, from the Chemo. I remember the conversation we had after the third round, at 2 am, in our big four poster bed, the site of so many happy and joyous moments over the years. No more. She could take no more. I stayed strong, for her, as she had taught me... but inside, I died. It was the first time I actually accepted that I was going to lose her.
I'd always known I was likely to outlive her, the sixteen, nearly seventeen, year age difference had strongly suggested that. She'd even told me many times when we'd discussed "the far future" that she hoped she went first, that she didn't know how she'd take losing me. She had, at the time, twenty years earlier, joked she'd throw herself into the grave with me if I went first, though I reminded her that with our three kids, we needed to be there for them, and for their children.
But realizing that "the far future" was months, or less, away hurt. I was only 43. That's too young to be a widower, to young to lose the love of my life, the mother of my children.
Three weeks ago, she rallied. We had a big family dinner, but invited our friends and neighbors. I remember Susan's smile; the smile was nearly as radiant as the one she gave me the day I told her I wanted her to be my wife. She beamed with pride over the family she'd made, how good looking (her words) our sons were, how beautiful our daughter.
That night, even as tired as she was, even as much pain as she was in, she begged me to make love to her again; she needed to feel the closeness, the love, the normality of what had been our life. The gentle murmurs of pleasure were low, especially compared to how vocal she'd been most of our time together. I'd done my best to fire every pleasure sensor in her body during those late night hours; It reminded me more of some of the more sensual lovemaking "lost weekends" we'd had during our earliest days, before Brandon. I took it slow, as if she was made of the finest china. She urged me to take her, to remind her that she had given herself to me body and soul twenty five years ago. She reminded me I was hers to use, as she was mine. The third, and final, session that night was a slow, languid climb up the hill, staring into each other's eyes, her legs wrapped around me, her arms around my neck, mine around her, holding her tightly to me, as we kissed, snuggled, licked, nipped, smiled, and sighed, lasting over an hour before I finally inundated her with the evidence of my love for her.
It was a memory, I knew, meant to keep me warm at night for these long future days of emptiness, a gift she was giving to me. It wasn't the last time we made love, that had been only four days before her passing a week ago.... but it was the last session she was able to hide her discomfort enough that I was able to truly feel the depths of her love for me.
She went down quickly after that night; perhaps that had taken too much from her, though over those last three weeks, she was the one begging me to make love to her, to, as she put it, send her to eternity knowing how wonderful our love had been; I would have been content just to hold her, feeling her warmth against mine, the soft satin of her skin against my chest. But she begged, even emotionally blackmailed me, saying things like "Don't you still want me?" and "I need to feel you again." to pull down my fears of hurting her.
