Loss & Found

It is raining again, and the rain makes me melancholy. I look out my window, and I watch the fat icy drops cascade recklessly from the pale gray October sky. It always rains in October here, wetting the brightly colored leaves that have freshly fallen, covering them with a faint sheen that causes them to glisten as they build in numbers, piling higher as the days grow darker and the trees reluctantly shed in anticipation of winter.

Eventually these leaves will begin to rot, the rain-soaked fibers inviting microbes, decaying and turning darker until the piles of leaves will be left a deep brown heap of muck, awaiting the street sweeper or if ignored, to be covered in a heavy and glowing blanket of snow that will shroud them until the spring thaw.

“Everything dies on this planet, Netta,” I whisper, glancing upward at the rain, “and everything weeps.” I notice the window has become increasingly difficult to see through, with months of grime and dust building on panes that you would have cleaned. I could not be bothered with such tasks, and what would be the point? To be able to see things clearer would only make me think about you with a clarity that I can neither stomach nor afford. It’s been nearly 2 months since you died, and I have been sitting upon this scratchy tweed loveseat beneath the window we looked out together on so many occasions. Sometimes I forget that you’re gone, and I instinctively call out, “Tea, my dear?” only to hear nothing in response but the faint echo of my own request in my ears and the near-constant soft patter of October rain.

I rarely leave this front room, which you called the parlor. I glide quickly through the kitchen to fetch just enough of a meal to sustain me, and I eat without tasting and swallow without feeling the food moving down my throat, for it is numb from the bourbon and whiskey that I carry with me, which bring me blissful yet fleeting moments in which I feel joy, and forget you’re gone.

To feel lonely and widowed was once a curse felt by few, and mostly in old age. But in this new world, with a pandemic, COVID-19, the cascade of loss and alone-ness was boundless. Antonetta would have been 75 on November 3rd, and she was ageless, timeless and might have been seventeen in my eyes. Her doctor told her she was healthy as a horse but that the virus invaded her lungs, drowning her as she lay alone, and I quietly drowned in sorrow from afar.

I have never felt such loss and loneliness, but I have a secret that I have found in all of this despair, and I will tell you about it because you were the keeper of all of my secrets, Netta. And you will keep this one, and you will give me a sign and I will know what to do with it when the time is right.

I went to scatter your ashes in the park, the park where we went every sunny afternoon, where we carved our initials in the London Planetree that is older than our ages combined and taller than nearly every other tree in the park. I said a small prayer for the safe transport of whatever piece of you transcended the virus that stole your shell and scattered your dust under that tree. It was at this moment, that my tear washed eyes saw a small object half-buried under a pile of deep green and amber leaves. I picked it up, rubbing dirt and decaying leaves off of what was a smooth black leather binding. It was a tiny journal, and its contents were bare save for one page, in the center, that bore a message:

Dear Stranger,

I can go on no longer. And you can’t take it with you. Whomever it is that finds this journal, it was meant to be. Under this tree is buried a box. In this box is $20,000 cash. All we had saved for a trip we would never take. Without my better half I am less than a half of a whole. It is for this reason I will not be taking a trip, and I cannot touch this money without feeling the guilt of a survivor. I am donating this money to someone who can spend it with someone they love. It is what I want. There is no sadness. I hope this gift to a stranger who chanced upon this journal and onto my hidden treasure, and I hope it brings you the joy I could not feel.

I read this message many times, and I stood for a great long time, thinking about you, and how the author of this journal knew how I felt without you. I wondered if they lost their love to the same insidious force. I wondered if I should find their treasure. I felt I owed it to them to try.

I set down your urn and went about clearing the leaves that had stacked against the great trunk, seeing that there was a patch of earth that had been disturbed, loose soil beckoning my hands to find what this stranger had buried. It must have been very recently that they left these offerings, for the soil was soft and pliable, as if it had just been buried within days or even hours. It was not buried deeply, this promised treasure in the form of a plaid wood cigar box. Inside, there was a stack of hundred-dollar bills wrapped inside of a plastic bag, piles that my hands had never touched in such volume. I held this money in my hands which were shaking from surprise, the cold, and something much more. I knew that this stranger could not go on without their beloved, and in this realization, I knew that I felt the same. No amount of found treasure, sunlight, bourbon and whiskey, and no amount of talking to the thin air as though you were here could change your fate, or my own. I sat with my back to the London Planetree for the better part of an hour, the money back in the box and the journal closed sitting on top of the box in my lap. I thought about your final days, alone in the hospital, unable to see me, scared and alone, dying as your lungs filled with a virus that stole your breath, and ultimately, stole you from me.

I thought of the nurse that held the phone to your ear as I said goodbye to you. I cried for you, I said a prayer for you, Netta. And I thanked the nurse for holding your hand as you crossed over and I heard her crying for you as well. She said you reminded her of her own mother, which she lost years ago.

“Everything dies on this planet, Netta,” I whisper, “and everything weeps.” As I stand, a mourning dove briefly lands on your urn, its miniscule talons making a gentle tap against the brass surface. It releases a gentle, lamenting call before taking flight. It flies high up into our tree, and disappears in the canopy of damp autumn foliage. This is your sign to me.

I remember this nurse’s name, Helena. I knew upon completion of these thoughts what I was going to do. I took your urn home and placed what was left of you in your parlor, on the strong oak table you loved. I pulled on my overcoat, I put on my mask. I took the subway to the hospital where your soul left your body, and I went to the front desk. I asked for Helena, the ICU nurse on the Covid-19 floor. I explained about you, and how she had helped me. I explained that I had a gift for her, for taking care of my Antonetta so lovingly. I gave them the box to give to her, that I had quickly yet carefully wrapped in heavy tan packing paper. I included the journal, and before wrapping it, I added my own words on the page following the message to me:

Dear Helena,

I can go on no longer. And you can’t take it with you. When you were assigned to care for Antonetta, it was meant to be. Under this journal is a box. In this box is $20,000 cash. It would have been for a trip with Antonetta that we would never take. Without my better half I am less than a half of a whole. In this box is $20,000 cash. All that was saved for a trip that would never be taken. Without my better half I am less than a half of a whole. It is for this reason I will not be taking a trip, and I cannot touch this money without feeling the guilt of a survivor. I am donating this money to someone who can spend it with someone they love. It is what I want. There is no sadness. I hope this gift to a stranger who chanced upon this journal and onto my hidden treasure, and I hope it brings you the joy I could not feel.

I walked from the hospital to the subway and rode it until I reached my stop. I walked home slowly, feeling the October wind beating at my back. Leaves swirl around me, twirling in the air and then slowly falling back to the earth. I arrive home, taking off my damp and heavy overcoat. I hang it on the back of a dining room chair. I go to your urn and kiss my hand, and then touch my hand to the smoothness of the vessel. I go to the window, and I whisper my secret to you. I walk into the bedroom and lay down, and I dream of our past together. I dream about when I may reunite with you, and I am not afraid. I wait for this with great anticipation, and I will not need to wait too long; I am old and my heart is broken. I know that when it happens it will bring me to you, Netta. And I will get back what this virus has pillaged from me. I am not afraid, I am happy. And as I lay awaiting my blessed fate, I think of Helena, how she may use this gift to care for herself, her family, and smile knowing that she is indeed an angel, and I will tell you all about this when I see you, Netta.