A million pennies

Coping with Marilyn’s death was something close to a laggard crawl in fictitious quicksand; torturous, as I was nothing but a few pieces of a person demanding to drown. Only grief could make the layered nature of life seem so incredibly shallow: seconds mirrored hours and there I was being tossed around in a circle of the same defeated counselors again and again until they eventually threw my case in hands of time. They are not to blame. I did not want to be helped because to be helped meant to reach a conclusion I was not ready to commit to. It’s been three years now. I am seventy two years old but I still whistle before I walk in to let her know I’m home. I still expect to embraced by the ambrosial perfume of flowers her hands had cultured outside our minuscule house in the village. From anemones and orchids to chrysanthemums and skeleton flowers; Flowers that disappear upon minimal contact with water, leaving behind only a slight outline of a flower; a slight outline of a human being. It looked like an atelier, a museum of life as it eventually ended up mirroring its cycle.

The outside was not the only thing that shifted. I wish that were the case sometimes but emptiness likes to begin its journey within. Our kitchen doesn't dance like it used to; The radio that once observed our little coordinated ballroom steps has been left to collect dust instead. The atelier, home to a magnificent set of gowns and a million more jotted down on a black leather notebook that stays open on her work desk. Pages seven to thirty three 0f creations that were robbed from the light of the present because they belong to the spark that was the past. My wife liked to collect pretty samples of fabric golds, pinks and blues. She'd drag me to the mini fabric store in the area so I could "choose" the pieces that evoked the most emotion. I say choose lightly because she would always end up disapproving of my choices of browns and picked out her own anyway. Brown was her least favorite of colors and I would decide on it every single time so we can "debate" it and I get to find out what she really wanted in the first place. At the end of the notebook lay a ridiculously heavy, colored bag that carries unreasonable amount of pennies in it. She was stubborn and liked to "earn" her next design. Alas, we would always argue about the unreliable state of the sack that was ripping as we spoke, proving me right by the minute. I hope the heavens don't let her know that I am but a hypocrite: I now find solace in collecting small pieces of fabric to add to her notebook and store my coins in the same exact manner, ripped old bag and all. I even add trivial notes of analysis next to each one and spend way too much time overthinking fonts and mirroring her fancy fountain pen wiggles. Don't let me fool you, they are all horrible attempts at being eloquent but at least I have never included a page of browns.

I wake up with a sense of tranquility and grace as I have chosen to remember her fondly. Marilyn's heart still beats within the vintage yellowed pages of her journal as I find glimpses of her with every flick of a page, every little note, and every penny that has fallen out of the ripped bag of plastic I have restored way too many times.