One more day

When you’ve avoided a place for so long, visiting it again can feel like living in a dream.

My memory had lost some of the details, more like dulled them overtime, making the garden seem more surreal than I thought it would. The marigolds litter the ground, bright pinks and cheerful yellows bringing a welcoming atmosphere to an otherwise vacant garden. In the center sat a large fountain, a solid presence in the ever changing landscape. When I was younger I used to visit the fountain, offering up pennies in exchange for a wish. When my wish didn’t immediately come true, I would take back my penny. Even then I knew better than to hold onto false hope. I reached in to feel the water cascading downwards but stopped when I remembered how dirty the water must be.

The sun burned hot yet it did nothing to relive the chill in my bones that had been there long since I arrived. I plucked a marigold and walked to the foundation taking a seat on the lip, fidgeting with the flower in my hand.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” It was said so softly that at first I thought it was just my ears playing an unfair trick on my heart. “Abby?”

I turned around slowly and saw him standing there, as beautiful as I remembered. I knew it wasn’t real, I’ve seen him a few times since his death. My therapist told me that it was my subconscious wrestling with my grief. I’ve come to believe that a heart in anguish can corrupt the mind.

“Took you long enough,” Sam said, cautious yet playful, as he came to sit next to me.

“Hate to keep you waiting,” I mumble numbly while analyzing his features. I’ve heard people say after losing someone that they would do anything just to see their face again; I’ve even wished for it myself. Yet sitting here, staring at his eyes, his smile, the freckles on his nose, it only hurts more.

“How have you been?” He says, turning his gaze towards the garden.

“I’ve heard that when someone dies, the first thing you will forget is their voice. It's been eleven years,” I pause as he turns back to look at me, “I remember the way you took your coffee. That you slept with the door closed. Your scent. I remember the last thing you said to me, but I couldn’t remember your voice. I really miss hearing your voice.”

He stared at me, like someone trying to figure out a puzzle. After a few seconds, he shaked his head and sighed.

“I heard you got married.”

I chuckled softly, “And how exactly did you hear that?”

He just offered a shrug in response. It was true of course. After years of grieving, I woke up one day, dusted myself off, and found a nice man who, against all odds, fell in love with me. He is kind, patient and above all, stable. I needed stability in my life so, after a few years of dating, we got married. It will be three years in August.

“I knew you would move on eventually. Find someone else.” Sam said, more to the flowers than to me. He isn’t trying to hurt me, has never tried to hurt me. I just always end up being the one who gets hurt.

“Yeah?” I say with a huff. “You don’t know anything about me. Not anymore.”

“I know you need something to toy with when you’re nervous.” He said yanking the flower from my hands and tossing it on the ground. He grabs my hand, turning it over to see the palm. I feel a sharp ache in my chest at the feeling of his hand, his warmth. “I know you got this scar,” he continued, while rubbing the now healed cut on my palm, “ from that night you tried to make us sushi for dinner.” He places my hand down on the fountain and looks up at me. He reaches out to wipe away the tears that have started streaming down my face.

“I know you don’t wear a ring because you resent that it’s his and not mine.”

He pulls me in closer and I take comfort crying into his chest. Inhaling his scent, feeling his warmth, hearing his heartbeat. A few minutes pass before I leave the safety of his arms and sit back into realty. I look out at the flower, still as beautiful as the first time I came to the garden.

“We used to come here so often.” I say, a sad smile pulling at my lips.

“Yeah. I still do.”