I will lament the loss of snow, the two of us, wrapped in warm blankets, on the sofa sipping hot tea, reading to each other. Peace falling.
But I always look forward to the sun in the garden, with you dressed in your old clothes, digging in the dirt. A spade in your hand, and the warmth on your cheeks. No one ever looked more beautiful in a sun hat. A woman of the earth.
He always had kept a place in his heart for the Impressionists. He and Karina would spend hours in the art museum, in love with each other, discussing Monet, or Cassatt. As he stood looking in through the glass of the gallery, on his way to the elevator, he smiled for the first time in months. It was a reproduction from Monet.
His mind drifted, and it was almost as if he could smell Karina’s hair, and they were at the museum again, he was that close to her. He imagined his nose buried in her long, blond, beautiful hair, and he was whispering sweet words into her ear.
Suddenly he shook it off, angry with himself for feeling. He headed for the elevator with determination in his step. But at the end of the day, he stopped by the gallery on the way out.
He looked at his watch, and realized they closed in ten minutes. Taking a step inside was one of the bravest things he had ever done. As he walked in he was amazed at the original work by local artists, the nature photography, and the reproductions. He was stunned, simply by the beauty of art.
And then he met her. “May I help you?” Her name tag said, “Mary”. Shocked, that someone had spoken to him, he stumbled over his words, and said, “No I was just looking.” He quickly walked out the door. He didn’t realize it, but a door was beginning to open. It was only a small opening, but some light was starting to get in……
He enjoyed being a piece of stone. He refused to feel anything, and went to work each day, grateful for the routine, for something to do. No one knew who he was, or his background. Most didn’t even know his name. After Karina and the baby had died in the car accident, he had switched jobs, and he had instructed his new boss to never tell anyone. He made it clear he did not ever want hear, “I’m sorry to hear about what happened.”
So he faded very well, blended right in. All the friends they used to have, had been Karina’s, so it was easy to lose touch. He sold the house, moved into an apartment, went to work each day, enjoying the coldness of refusing to feel. It was safer.
He had stopped painting, and swore he would never paint again, because painting involved love, involved feeling emotions. He refused it every day. This went on for two years, until one day a small gallery opened up, on the ground floor of his office building.
Not acting our age, you take off running, “You can’t catch me!” “Yes I can!” You give up, and I yell, “Gothcha!” “Don’t you DARE tickle me again!” Laughing, then holding you, we both look at the waves, “Listen a love song…” “I hear it….”
“Look our shadows.” “Where’s the camera, here……hold still……” “My cowboy!” “Sshhhh, someone might hear you!” “Hold still…got it.” “I love how you look on the beach.” Our foreheads meet, eyes locked in on each other. Lips greeting one another, as if they were lost, and now they were found. They get entangled in a beautiful mess. The muffled sounds of, “I will always love you.” And “You taste like peanut butter.” Laughing again, and whispering next to the waves.