Recycling Grief

This is the edited version of this story, a story based on personal experiences.

Recycling Grief

A Memoir By Willys Watson 

Sara passed away on the hottest day of a prolonged heat wave that suffocated the LA basin last October. And even though neighbors and the crew that tried to revive her reassured me there was nothing I could have done to save her the guilt, compounded with grief, lingered for months afterwards. If only I was not working that day? If only I had ben there for her? If only? If only? But the guilt did eventually subside and the grief has finally dissipated to the point where I can try to articulate the experience now.

When she came into my life twelve years ago, moving into my home soon afterwards, it began the longest relationship either of us had ever maintained.

Tall, angular and olive skinned, Sara was not, at the time of our first encounter, my ideal concept of beauty. Still, her unique appearance became an endearment to me. As to whether or not she had misgivings about my physique she never expressed these. Outside of the physical realm our temperaments blended well and friends accepted us as an amicable couple.

And it’s not that we were a perfect match. if there is such a thing, but we came pretty close to it. Because I work outside the home to pay the bills and much of my free time is focused on my art and writing Sara understood this easily because her own vocation in life absorbed most of her time. But even with our full lives we still entertained company on occasion and she gracefully accepted the role of cheerful, accommodating hostess when we welcomed friends or neighbors into our home. So it shouldn’t be difficult to comprehend how I became smitten with such an effortless compatibility.

To clarify the boundaries of our companionship I did have an occasional physical need she willingly satisfied and in return I provided her with a comfortable home, a room of her own and the healthy food she required to sustain her lifestyle. Nothing else was asked of her and nothing else was expected of me. We had our own space, our own lives. The judgmental or skeptical could claim that Sara was a kept woman, a mistress, but this was far from the truth. Our relationship developed into a giving, sharing endearment most people should feel blessed to have.

At the time of her unexpected demise I was blinded by grief for several days. It took most of my remaining mental strength to function on a primitive enough level to understand that life goes on even in the aftermath of personal tragedy. And Sara, who’s spirit was watching from beyond, did what she could in her own way to lighten the emotional burden. When I delivered her to her final resting place she gifted me with the $17.00 I was paid for the scrap metal of her remains. I wisely used this money towards her replacement, a new refrigerator. A little bit older now, a little bit wiser, I bought one with an extended warranty.

And life goes on.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

Oh, wait... wait a minute--did you just do that? Right up through the $17.00 for scrap metal, I still thought you spoke of your lovely human mate. (A body is worth a few bucks for its minerals, I've always heard.) This is good, Willys--you speared me like a napping toad.

[Willys Watson]

The short story last minute hook goes back to the likes of Saki and O. Henry. It only works if readers believe I'm talking about a real woman. And this story is actually based on something that happened to me last fall when my fridge, which I had had for twelve years, gave out on me.