Dear Life(9)

I don’t answer her, I just nod, not sure what to say or how to act.

“Please think about it at least. If you need anything, you know you can call me anytime.” And it’s true. During the first three months after Eric passed, I would call Amanda in the middle of the night, my heart swollen in grief, Eric’s picture clutched to my chest, tears staining my cheeks . . . and she would come over and hold me until I fell asleep.

“Bye, Hollyn,” Matt says somberly before he shuts the door, leaving me once again alone. Alone. Just like I am night after lonely fucking night.

Their footsteps fade in the hallway, the pamphlet Amanda left burns a metaphorical hole in my coffee table, begging and pleading to be opened.

Live again. Is that even possible?

I was married to Eric for a year and a week before he was killed during a firefighter training, a beam falling on him and crushing his body.

A year and one week. That’s all I had. One year and a week to call a man my husband, to hear him call me his wife. To revel in the newlywed glow. One year and a week to soak in the man that so easily stole my heart.

I don’t think it’s possible to know what life is again, to enjoy the small things like the beautifully brilliant blue sky of Colorado, to enjoy the smell of a fresh cup of coffee brewed to your specific request, or to revel in the sound of a baby’s joyful laughter. Everything is dull. It’s grey. It’s mundane. Lackluster.

Lifeless.

Even though we had so little time together, life without Eric isn’t worth living.

Sorrow encompasses me, throwing me once again into a vicious cycle of depression. Eyeing Eric’s recliner, I walk to my sanctuary and seep into the well-worn cushions. This is safety—warmth and familiar—the closest thing I have to Eric wrapping his arms around me. Opening up the Voxer app on my phone, without even giving it a second thought, I press on Eric’s handle and start to play the most recent messages he sent me, getting lost in his memory.

“Twigs, you will never believe who I saw at King Soopers while getting guacamole fixings. Chase Styles from the Colorado Miners. Guess what was in his cart? Tampons, apple juice, and a box of frozen White Castle cheeseburgers. Think he’ll be offended if I switch out his apple juice for Ecto Cooler?”

“Don’t forget to put the laundry in the dryer for me, I need under-roos despite you thinking I can go commando. Got to keep the balls in a sling if we want all those babies.”

Tears start to fall from my eyes from the rich timbre of his voice, the sweet joking tone he would use with me, and the way he so easily made me swoon from just listening to him. I play another, clutching my phone close to my heart, as if I’m holding him right there with me.

“Coming home, Twigs. You better be naked, lying on the bed with an arrow pointing at your vagina with a sign that says, Eric owns this pussy. Five minutes.”

His touch, commanding, yet loving.

His love, unyielding, yet undeserving.

His smile, intoxicating, yet charming.

There’s no denying it, he was my everything.

“Pretty sure I just saw our neighbor walking a chicken. No joke, Bob Jones was just walking a chicken. Let’s investigate later. I’ll let you wear war paint this time as long as you promise not to try to paint my dick again. It’s stuffed in pants, it doesn’t need camouflage.”

His humor. His eyes. His scruff. His lips.

The way he knew how to put a smile on my face despite my mood.

All I have left are the faint smell in his clothes, the overplayed messages on my phone, and the faded pictures in my album.

Pulling the collar of my shirt up to my nose, I take in a deep breath, hoping for a small whiff of him, for a small acknowledgement that the man I once thought would be my forever is still living in vivid memory.

But sadly, I know with each passing day, his memory continues to pale. His scent fading, his laugh silencing, and his warm embrace dissolving, leaving me feeling so cold.

What was supposed to be a love of everlasting armor was easily cracked, broken, and lost.

Sorrow, anguish, and heartache pour from my eyes, coating my cheeks and soaking my shirt in a collection of lost memories.

This is it, this is my life full of . . . nothing.

I’m lost in a blur of affliction when my phone beeps with an incoming text. Through tear-saturated eyes, I read the message.

Amanda: I love you, Hollyn. No matter what you decide, I will always be there for you. I will call you tomorrow.

Tossing my phone on the coffee table, I suck in a deep breath, willing my tears to stop.

“Pull it together, Hollyn.”

I really don’t want to be this person anymore. I don’t want to be sad anymore, and I don’t want to once again disappoint the one person who’s stuck by my side when I pushed everyone else away.

Sitting up, with less gusto than I wish, I push my hair out of my face and stare down at the pamphlet Amanda left.

Dear Life.

Learn to live again.

Am I ready to live again? No, but I also don’t want to let Amanda down either. I pick up the pamphlet and take it to bed with me, leaving my phone and Eric’s messages behind. Not tonight. I’m already broken enough. I will not fall asleep to his voice . . .

Stopping in the hallway, I grip the wall, my head down, the thought of not hearing Eric’s voice in my head as my eyes drift shut. Can I do it?

Can I shut my eyes to nothing but lonely silence?