My Heart is in Seattle

I remember when road trips were fun. A stop at the gas station to grab armfuls of treats. A Spotify playlist with all our old favorites, accompanied by off-key singing. Too much coffee, and the requisite ten bathroom breaks after.

You had such a small bladder.

On your fortieth birthday I asked where you wanted to go. I suggested we go somewhere fun and exciting, like Vegas. How often did we get a whole weekend to ourselves, without the kids? But you wanted to go to Seattle, back to where we got engaged. I had no idea it would be our last trip.

Seattle was only a few hours’ drive away from where we lived. We had to cross the border, from Canada to the United States. Back when borders meant something.

It seemed odd to me, when I passed through the check-stops without anyone there. I could have carried whatever I wanted with me, without even trying to hide them. Guns, drugs, exotic animals. Do you remember when we watched that show about border crossings, with the guy who had snakes hidden in his jacket?

You loved snakes. I hated them. You wanted to get Tyler a pet snake for his tenth birthday, but I said no. God, I wish I didn’t say no. I wish I hadn’t let my fear get in the way of your happiness.

I’d do anything to see you smile again. The dimple on your left cheek, the way your hazel eyes twinkled, eyes crinkling in the corners, permanent lines that I’m sure I contributed to.

The highway is still here, only barely. It hasn’t taken long for the forests to overtake the asphalt, reducing it to little more than a winding black river. I used to think that humanity could survive anything, that everything we’d done and built and ruined over the past several thousand years would somehow be permanent.

I was wrong.

I pat my breast pocket, feeling the weight of the only thing I have left of you. I’m taking you back to Seattle, where I got it for you on your fortieth birthday. I wrapped it around your neck and kissed the freckle on your left shoulder, smelled the sweet lilac scent of your shampoo. You’d turned your head, kissed me, so soft, as if we were young lovers and not an old married couple, still somehow finding romance after three kids, two dogs, and a mortgage.

Mortgages. What a laugh. Bills aren’t a thing that exist anymore. The only positive thing about the world ending is that nobody expects anything of me. No calls from collectors, no planning for retirement, no boss haranguing me to stay the weekend. I wish I’d have told him no. I wish I’d have gone with you to the beach that day instead of sitting behind my computer, you sending pictures of the kids eating ice cream. Without me.

I wish it hadn’t taken an apocalypse to put everything into perspective. I wish the world still turned, that I could roll over and open my eyes and see your face, resting in peace, blissful. You always slept so blissfully, even if your mouth hung open a little. Just like our babies. God, they looked just like you.

After weeks of hiking on foot, of camping out in abandoned cars and buildings, I'm almost there. I draw nearer to the remnants of the city, shouldering my heavy pack with the contents of what remains of my life. There’s not much. A bedroll, a few scraps of clothing, food I’d scavenged, my crossbow. The white-lettered green sign welcoming me to Seattle used to sit high up, attached to metal poles. Now it’s dug half-way into the ground, covered in dirt, barely recognizable.

The closer I get, the heavier my pack is, bearing the weight of a life no longer worth living. It’s been a long, lonely journey. I wish I could drive one of these useless cars lining the road, if any of the batteries worked, if the gasoline within them hadn't gone sour years ago. Road trips on foot are painful; my aching back, blistering feet, and empty stomach are constant reflections of the trials I’ve faced to get here.

Road trips without you are even more painful. Without you throwing popcorn at me from across the seat, without you singing all the words to Bohemian Rhapsody wrong, without you telling me to pull over so you can pee.

I force myself forward, one step at a time, as I’ve done these past few years without you. I’d done my best to survive, to make some sense of the life I have now that the world has ended. But nothing makes sense without you. The world didn’t end with the meteor hitting the south pole. The world didn’t end with the subsequent flooding, the wars over fresh water, the millions of refugees seeking somewhere to live that wouldn’t kill them.

The world ended when you died.

I navigate through the empty streets, past buildings overtaken by greenery. A herd of deer eyes me from the sidelines, never having seen a human before. I consider reaching for my crossbow, but stop myself. There’s no point.

By the time I make it to the harbor the sun is setting. Under any other circumstance, it would be beautiful. The sky is alive; undulating clouds of pinks and oranges reflecting on an endless ocean, merging with the horizon to create the illusion of eternity. I breathe in the salty sea air, wriggle my toes in my damp, holey boots, listen to the call of the gulls and the crash of the waves.

The pedestrian bridge leading from the mainland to the ferry terminal used to pass over a road, but now it passes over water and leads nowhere. It’s a dead end. Much like my life.

Along the chain link fence on either side are rusty locks, bearing the initials of lovers from years gone by. It’s a poor replication of the Pont des Arts bridge in Paris, but we couldn’t afford to go. You never got to see Paris. I wish I’d taken you.

We came here, to this very spot, so very long ago, when we were young and in love and the world was ours for the taking. I got down on one knee right here, asked you to spend the rest of your life with me.

And you did.

I took you back, years later, for your fortieth birthday, when I gave you the very last gift you'd ever receive. If only I'd known then what I know now.

I kneel down, finding the red heart-shaped lock with ease. My thumb caresses the letters upon it, all that’s left of you. Except one thing.

From my breast pocket I remove your locket. The silver is tarnished, but the children’s birthstones are still bright. I plant a kiss on the metal, warmed by my touch, and string it around the lock.

Everything I was, everything I am, everything I will ever be, is here.

With you.

Goodbye, my love.

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And if you need to read something less sad to cheer you up, may I suggest: