Winter SkyA Story by Esther JacobyIt was cold outside and the day was already turning to dusk by the time I finally took my coat and left. The rain touched my face, caressed my shoulders. I didn't want to look up and instead focused on the autumn colours being trampled by my feet. The warm orange and light browns of the oak leaves made me feel less cold. By the time I reached the traffic light I was enjoying the autumn colours enough to look for the warm contrast of the leaves against the grey sky, the cold charcoal buildings and the bright green of the grass in the parks. I've always loved this city. But in the autumn and winter months it seemed like her beauty shone brightest. The scent of the ocean was carried in the soft misty rain and I always felt like I was part of a masterpiece painted in watercolour. It was a city filled with moody evenings and warm tomato based soups, served with crusty baked bread. But tonight I wasn't going to take the old, comfortable walk to one of my favourite Italian cafes like I would normally do, instead I found shelter at the tram stop. Tonight I didn't want to love this city; tonight I didn't want to be reminded of her love for me. I wanted her to hide her beauty; I didn't want to be tempted to lose myself in her. I got on my tram and huddled against the window closing my eyes. Trying to block out the sight of the old couple sitting close to each other with their fingers entwined. I was almost successful until a group of students climbed on and started playing a guitar while singing songs they just made up. I looked at their youth, freedom and promise and felt an uncharacteristic jealousy rise up in me. Unable to bear the joyful noise any long I left the tram two stops before my usual stop and wrapped myself tighter in my coat, bracing against the rain and cold wind. Nature felt some sympathy and dimmed its light, turning the road into darkness, ready for the orange glow of the streetlights. As I got closer to our home I found reasons to slow my steps, to take a more leisurely pace. My mobile started vibrating, but I had no one I wanted to speak to, so I let it ring. My husband's bicycle was still standing on our veranda where he left it after our weekend trip to the mountains. My roses were giving a last few blooms, fooled by the rain into living. The Grevilleas were waving their branches in a welcome and promise of colourful beauty for another season. I opened the front door and waited for a long
time before entering and turning on the lights and heating. The cat came in her
usual manner giving love for the privilege of an immediate dinner. Traces of our life together were everywhere;
his breakfast things still scattered all over the kitchen island, my dirty
coffee cup waiting patiently by the dishwasher. His work boots caked with mud
in the laundry. His needs added to the shopping list on the fridge; shaving
cream, chocolate, single malt whisky, new socks. My ovulation marked on the
calendar with bright red pen. I walked to the bedroom and opened his closet.
Took one of his old cardigans and draped it over my shoulders, breathing in his
scent. How? How could this happen in this beautiful city?
How could this happen to us, to me? I replay the day in my mind looking for some clue as to the end of it. Did he seem extra attentive during breakfast? Was he holding me a bit longer before I left for work? Or did his death catch him as unprepared as it did me? Did he climb the ladder expecting to fall? Did he look at the beautiful skyline of this city as he was fixing the roof and realise that that would be his last? Was he scared? Did he think of me in his final moments? As I walk through the house, not able to sit or stand still, unable to settle, I keep on wondering how life could be so short. How it all ended before it even really began. I circle back to the kitchen and start doing
the dishes, clearing away the last meal we would ever share. I put on the radio
and the house is filled with the warm tones of a piano. Later, as I finally get the courage to get
ready for bed, I open my Bible and find the letter, carefully placed there that
morning, as was his habit since our wedding. A letter of love and devotion. A letter giving thanks for my careful
attention to his needs. A letter promising a future filled with his undying
love. It’s only then that I'm able to
give in to my utter sadness. And I cry as if my soul will never be able to
breathe again. © 2016 Esther JacobyReviews
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Added on June 10, 2015Last Updated on April 25, 2016 |