Thomas was old enough to be my grandfather.
When the chaplain asked for rings, Thomas picked up his soda can, loosened the tab with his slender fingers, and slipped it onto my ring.
It was too big.
He chuckled softly.
“Let’s pretend your finger is shy.”
For seven days, I was his wife.
“Let’s pretend your finger is shy.”
I signed the forms.
Fitted blankets.
They smuggled in a better tea.
I sat down beside him when the pain made his breathing shallow.
Once, near the end, he opened his eyes and said, “Don’t confuse quietude with peace.”
“What does this mean?”
“Don’t confuse quietude with peace.”
His smile was discreet.
“You’ll find out.”
Then he fell asleep.
He never woke up again.
***
And the green backpack lay open at my feet like a map without roads.
I didn’t open the notebook that night.
He never woke up again.
I took my backpack home, put it on the kitchen table, and walked around it for almost two hours.
The apartment seemed too quiet.
My mother’s mug was still near the sink, even though she had passed away almost a year ago.
I had never moved it before.
I told myself it was because I wasn’t ready.
I took my backpack home.
At midnight, I opened another envelope.
Airport.
Inside was a boarding pass from nine years ago.
On the back: “He called the daughter from Gate 14.”
Then, the self-service laundry.
A sheet of fabric softener folded into a square shape.
“We both waited for the blue blanket. She said it still smelled like home.”
At midnight, I opened another envelope.
Next, the hospital chapel.
A small prayer card.
“He stopped apologizing for crying.”
I spread the envelopes out on the table.
Bus stop.
Candy shop.
Airport.
Self-service laundry.
Park bench.
Waiting room.
Chapel.
All those clichés.
All these unfinished stories.
“He stopped apologizing for crying.”
***
In the morning, I had slept for maybe an hour.
The backpack was still open.
The notebook was still down there.
This time, I opened it.
The first page contained only two sentences.
“People think that loneliness is the absence of company.”
Most of the time, it’s a lack of attention.
The notebook was still down there.
The words seemed strangely familiar to me, although I didn’t remember Thomas ever saying them aloud.
I’ll turn the page.
CONTINUED ON THE NEXT PAGE.
