Some say that time heals all wounds, but that is a lie. It was just over a year ago that a drunk driver crossed the center line and took my wife, Anne from me. Since then I had fallen into a deep depression that time, the supposedly great healer, would not or could not release me from. I existed, but was untethered from my humanity. I felt no joy in life; no love or humor, not even hate. I was nothing but a pale, emotionless shade just going through the motions of life without really living.
My daughter Janine knew of this and saw the changes that occurred in me, and saw what I was becoming. Maybe if I had realized what I was doing to her I might have climbed out of the pit I had fallen into sooner, but I was too steeped in my own ruin to have noticed her own suffering. And suffer she did; not just from the loss of her mother, nor from my self-imposed exile from life, but deep down she must have known that she was the only bulwark that stood between me and my own demise. That fact would have been a terrible burden for anyone to carry, let alone someone so young, and it must have caused her insurmountable anguish.
So it was that I found myself on the station platform waiting for her train. It was Janine's Winter break from college, and she would be living back at home for the next couple weeks. For the first time in recent memory I felt genuinely happy, and was filled with anticipation of her arrival. The last time I had seen her was right after the funeral, when subsequently she spent the next year away from me, and getting most of her college prerequisites out of the way. I suspect that part of the reason for her long stay away from home was due to my ever worsening depression. The last thing anyone wants to do when they are sad themselves is be around depressing and depressed people, so I imagine that Janine voluntarily remained at college.
When I saw her again I marveled at how much see looked like her mother, and except for her hair color, which was darker, and the broad nose that she inherited from me, Janine could almost have passed for her sister in younger days.
Our conversation on the ride home was amiable, but more reserved than I had ever known. It was mostly confined to small talk. She commented on how thin I looked, and asked if I had been eating at all. A morsel here and there I said. I was not very hungry lately. I asked if she made any new friends, or developed any new romances. She said she was too busy with school to have too much of a social life. It seemed that for the passed year both of us were resigned, or almost content, to live our lives in relative isolation from the busy world that surrounded us.
It wasn't until I got her home that Janine's demeanor changed, and I began to fully realize how much pain she bore. The tears began to flow almost immediately when she walked into the kitchen, that area of the house, I suspect, she most equated with her mother. She stood for a moment looking about her as large drops of moisture welded up around her eyes, and as she turned toward me all she could muster to say was, 'I miss her so.' I clutched her hard as great sobs of anguish flowed out of her, dampening my shirt. I listened to the totality of all the pain and misery she bore for a year spill out of my child, and I felt shame and grief. The grief came from the knowledge that as with me, a part of my daughter must also have died at the loss of her mother, and shame that I allowed her to suffer so, alone and in silence. I tried to remain composed long enough to ask her for forgiveness for my selfishness and apathy before succumbing to my own sorrow. We held each other and wept, for how long I do not remember.
In subsequent days we both eased back into a normal existence. Janine cooked diner for us, and assumed other household duties, which brought much needed life back into the home. I continually asked her about school and classes, giving her advice and instruction on science and mathematics, two subjects that she was deficient. Mostly we talked about Anne, no longer with melancholy, but in a fun-loving and humorous way. Each of us trading stories about her little quirks and foibles that made us love her. It was in one of these conversations that Janine asked me what I missed most about her mom. I didn't think much about Janine's question, or my answer at the time, but both would irrevocably change our lives. I told her that I missed sleeping and waking up beside her the most. Anne was always a terrible bed-hog, an idiosyncrasy that I did not like at the time, but now realize as an endearing quality. It always made for sleepless nights having to constantly, and unsuccessfully, push her back to her side of the bed. However, even with all my efforts I would still wake up nearly falling off the edge of the bed as Anne had absconded with the majority of the room. Now that she was gone I missed our somnambulant fights for territory, because their absence made me feel more alone.
