Connected (Connections, #1)(15)
“I’ve missed you too, you know. At least I’m finally done with school forever!” I began running my fingers through his blond hair. “Now I’ll be out in the real world; no homework, no internships, no thesis. Just plain everyday work and I’m so looking forward to it,” I said as I pulled him back down to my lips and ran my hands down his back.
He braced himself on his forearms, and stared at me for a long while.
“What?”
“You,” he replied, “You’re just so f*cking gorgeous.”
I shook my head and smiled at him like I always did when he used his own oxymora language.
“Really, you are. I could look at you, be with you, for the rest of my life,” he stated while standing up to reach into the inside pocket of his board shorts. He pulled out something silver and shiny but I couldn’t quite see what it was with the sun so bright and my sunglasses off. He was holding the item, and it seemed to glint in the sunlight. Maybe it was a coin or his watch even, I couldn’t tell.
Then he sat on both knees back on the towel and pulled me up off my back and onto my knees. “Dahl London, I have loved you my whole life and don’t ever want to know what it is like to live without you. Marry me!”
The wind blowing though my backyard brought me back into the present. I stopped twisting my ring as I stood up and reached into my own jeans pocket to retrieve the necklace Grace gave me. With tears in my eyes, I walked over to the flowers and sat on the grass to smell them. After I inhaled their beautiful scent, I picked one and a silent tear rolled down my face and I decided—yes—it was time.
15 months after….
May 18th, 2011
I woke up in the spare room, the room that Grace has now made my room. But today when I woke up I felt different. This morning I felt a little better than I did yesterday and much better than I did last month or the month before that. I looked out the window and the sun was shining. I decided I needed to get up and as I did, I looked at the bare walls and my clothes thrown all over the floor. I thought maybe today will be the day that I will go in our room, no, that room. I hated this room I was in, but couldn’t help feeling that its drab, lifeless personality is a direct reflection of me and how I feel.
After we moved in, I never got around to decorating it. The walls and carpet are still a gloomy shade of off-white, the windows are uncovered, and there is very little furniture. The room has no personality; it is the exact same way I have been feeling.
I pulled myself out of bed and traipsed down the hall to the bathroom, thinking about how much I hated it as well. Maybe I should go back to that room today. My room, I mentally corrected myself. I may even sleep in that bed again and use that bathroom. My therapist wants me to call things in the house my instead of our, but I can’t do that yet, so I just call things that.
I walked through the living room trying not to trip over the boxes sprawled across the floor that Grace dropped off three months ago. She wanted me to pack up some of his stuff, but I hadn’t gotten around to it. Pushing the boxes aside, I walked to the closed bedroom door at the end of the hall and when my hand touched the doorknob I considered whether or not I should actually open it. I remembered the dreams I had when I slept in there and how real they seemed and I knew he was in there—everywhere.
I mentally pushed myself and opened the door to look in the room. It was unchanged; I hadn’t let anyone go in there, not even Grace. The bed wasn’t made. My dress was thrown over a chair in the corner. My many strands of white pearls and a single strand of black pearls were strung over the mirror attached to my dresser. They were my aunt’s most cherished pearls, handed down from her mother, left to me when she died. I saw my running shoes under the chair and walked across the room, touching various items on my way to the bathroom. I actually laughed a little looking at the necklaces still on top of the counter remembering his pearls remind me of Grammy comment. He was always so witty.
I started to feel like maybe time had stood still, but I knew that wasn’t true, only in here it was. I looked around at all of our things intertwined and knew it was time. It will be strange not having his things here to remind me of him, but I will always remember him, he was a part of me, he is a part of me, a part of my heart, a part of my soul, a part of my everything. Always.
As I stood at the dresser, I looked at all of his things. I grinned as I spotted his bottle of cologne, the cologne his sister bought him so long ago, the cologne he hardly ever used. He used to say, “Cologne is just a masculine name for male perfume, either way it’s made for chicks.”
I laughed a little at his love for redefining words using his own personal brain dictionary as I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror; gaunt cheekbones, light splattering of freckles more obvious, unkempt hair, and tired hazel eyes shadowed by fatigue. I remembered he would always tell me, “You’re so f*cking gorgeous.” I wonder what he’d say if he saw me now. Probably something like, “Dahl, get your shit together already.” Even at that I laughed because his use of obscenities wasn’t really vulgar, it was just a part of his every day vocabulary, and over the years had become a part of mine.
I looked in the mirror and I saw my engagement ring hanging around my neck and the bracelet encircling my wrist. I closed my eyes to avoid looking at myself. I was aching inside at the thought that this ring wouldn’t hang around my neck forever, but I knew I would always wear my LOVE bracelet. I will wear this bracelet, not just because he gave it to me the day he died, but because of the irony of the gift. It’s ironic that he gave it to me and said, “This says what I never seem to be able to say.” I never doubted his love, but the gesture itself more than proved it. Just thinking about it almost brought me to my knees. So as I looked at the bracelet, I promised myself that it would be a constant reminder that life is full of ironies; that I will always say what needs to be said—no regrets.