The Last Night

 

          It had rained that night. I remember that the scent of the wet earth mingled with the night blooming jasmine in a way that was intoxicating and heavy. We walked in the moonlight which had just started to emerge from the clouds once again. The rain water continued to sprinkle us and the sound of it hitting the stonework and the gazebo was all I could focus on. It was like a metronome, steady and soothing me to sleep. I was so sleepy and I wished that I could shake off that feeling of drowsiness because I desperately wanted to remember every second of that night.  

           My lover was leaving me. The next morning, instead of waking up in his arms and greeting the blush of sunlight with soft smiles we would be ripped apart and separated by a large, violent ocean. He was going to fight some war in some place I’d never even heard of for the glory of the country, to prove his manhood and his pride. It was barbaric and pointless and I hated him for it. I had spent too long trying to convince him not to go, too long being angry and hurt by his decision. Now we had just a few short hours before he was scheduled to leave me and I was attempting to shove all the time that I had spent fighting into those hours.

         We walked in the garden in silence. He looked grim when I summoned the courage to look over at him. His gray eyes were focused on some point in his future that I could not see. His mouth, usually so soft, was a hard line set against the future. Was he regretting his decision? He walked with precision even then, his clothing always so neat and trim on his frame. I was the opposite, my skirt flowing and soft. I would have rather been naked, free in the balmy air, and chilled with the slight breezes. We were opposites, complements.

          There was no need for us to talk that night and so the words between us were few and meaningless. There was nothing left to say, anyway. We allowed the silence to talk for us, the air that we shared so intimately conveyed our meaning more than words in any language. My hand pressed in his, with our fingers tangled together, spoke of my desperation better than I could. His thumb rubbing the sensitive part of my finger soothed me as best as he was able. There was no need for words.

            We sat at the gazebo when I was tired, our footsteps simply leading us there. And, sitting on the bench seats, we held each other. I rested my head against his chest listening to his heartbeat. I wanted so much for my own heart to fall into the same soothing rhythm, but my heart was shattered and would not beat properly. I wanted so much to be as calm and solid as he was, but I was fragile and broken.

          I was desperate to remember everything, I needed to remember. I touched his face with my fingertips so that they could remember the roughness of his unshaved cheek, the contours of his jaw. I stared into his eyes so that I could burn the memory of their color, their every hue and shade, into my mind. With my mouth I kissed every soft spot on his neck so that my lips would remember how he tasted. I buried my nose into the hair on his chest so that I could remember his smell.

           And yet, with all that, when he left me the next morning, the sun coming up eggshell white, I was already losing it. I could no longer see his beloved face through the tears and I could no longer feel his body with my numbed fingers. Even his voice I could only hear as a rumbling vibration against my cheek and I can not recall what he said to me as the bus pulled up and pulled me away from him.

        Forever.

        Since that morning, I had become anathema to the light. I cloaked myself in the comforts of night and never ventured out into the hateful sun. Mornings especially were unhappy and I blacked out my windows so that I would not have to see the sunlight, like the pale white hand of a corpse, creeping towards me. The bed sheets and the pillows still smelled of him and I wrapped myself in them pretending he was there.

        The day the letter came it rained. I didn’t read it until the night fell and I could walk in the garden again and sit where we sat in the gazebo as the rain fell on the roof. The words made no sense to me as words have long since lost all their meanings. It was the paper, that same slip that I had seen so many times in the hands of other women, that spoke the message. I traced my fingers along the paper trying to ease some warmth, some human thought of kindness from it, though I knew it was hopeless.

        The slip of paper was as cold as the grave.

Reviews

[Michael X]

the flight of thought, and your creativeness and consistancy soars among the highest clouds, this is farewell to love, i am just blown away.
litereally touches the heart to no-end kimbery, brilliant work here.

[melissa]

this was great , i wish i could write like you:) the detail was prefect very vivid i loved it:)

[Dutch Jr.]

Your writing is very vivid, and so well articulated. You're very talented, keep it up.

[Iris Jayne]

This story reminds me of Pearl Harbor so much. Each word steered me to the next, willing me to finish. It was moving, and the precise descriptions made it more than just words. It made the whole thing real. The feeling flowed, and it was consistent all the way. Great story. (: A hundred over a hundred.

[Suhcej]

I like this one, your writing is very good, keep it up :)