It seems as though I have spent years trying to make sense of it — the crushing pursuit of tenderness she has given me — the pining that old age brings with its wrinkled skin, freckled face, and pockmarked cheeks of days and days of existence. I long to lay with the same fullness, with my wife on the right side of the bed, who showed me I could be loved a little bit louder than the silence this world has treated us.
It is such a niche request but I only wish for my memory to not wither. There is nothing I want more than to be able to preserve my memories exactly like this, to use cheap ink to write all the stories we would be remembered for and never forget the decades’ worth of love and comfort, loneliness and loss, in my heart.
I digress. I know that this is all meant to be momentary. These memories exist so long as I can recall them, and I can only mourn those that I have already lost. I heat the kettle and watch with eyes adjusting as the light slowly peeks out of the window.
I make her joys in a cup of hot chocolate and gently head towards the room right in time to see her waking up from a stretch. Her eyes adjust to find my silhouette aiming for a forehead waiting to be kissed. Perhaps a life partially remembered won’t be as scary after all.
I will lay with the same fullness, with my wife on the right side of the bed, our feet intertwined and bathed in moonlight with the memories I’ve managed to keep. She exists within the four corners of these walls and the warmth will remain the same.
I hope we never lose sight of it.
Piece by Jannaya Barrion
