3
Wyatt
2018
“For some reason, I remembered a poem Hayley wrote to me a long time ago. The paper smelled of flowers, and there were dried flowers stapled to it. She would write me poetry and letters; I’d read them in my darkest hours. Somehow it seems only fitting today that I reach into my consciousness and draw out one.” — Excerpt from Wyatt’s journal
I standin the crowded churchyard with the rain pelting down around me. The trees sing a haunting tune, and I stare up at them, watching as their tops sway. Nature cries, but I have no more tears left. I shed them all. The minister speaks to me, and I can’t find the words to respond; there are no words left to say. Last rights and all that. May they proceed? The words seem to be trapped within me, causing the ache to grow and fester like poison. I can feel it seep into my bloodstream, in my bones, and in my soul.
I’m surrounded by people, yet I’m alone. She was lying lifeless in a casket, which was far too big for her small frame. Her heart stopped, and there was nothing that could be done. They lower her farther into the ground, and I can almost see her nose scrunch up in annoyance at being buried alive. That sounds pathetic, doesn’t it? I'm in denial.
She would always be alive, in every sunrise and sunset, in the dawn of a new day and every single time I take a fucking breath.
I’ll remember her and the sacrifices we both made. The love that grew over time because we were the only two people who understood what it felt like to lose everything.
Love is an odd thing, isn’t it? It’s almost comical in a sense.
I felt the hope I once held, that there would be tomorrow, slip away like sands through an hourglass. It’s always moving, no matter which way you tip it.
This is no happy story, despite how much she wanted me to think it could be.
My wife, Erin, believed we were kindred spirits on a seasonal journey, and when we came to the end of it, we’d find the answers to life’s most important questions.
I was a fool for believing her.
I’d been a fool long before I met her.
I watch as she disappears into the ground. Trumpets sound, and members of my division who came to pay their respects to the wife of their commanding officer salute.
They make their way out of the burial grounds after stopping to shake my hand or pat my shoulder. The other mourners make their way to their cars, trying to get out of the rain, wondering if there are sandwiches at my house.
Who the fuck cares about food at a time like this? And yet they hog it all down and go for seconds too. I'm judgmental. I’ve been to too many funerals.
The day is getting grayer by the second, the rain falling harder, and then I see it. A glimpse of sunshine as it ducks behind a tree.
I frown.
I don’t deserve the sun.
Today, I’ll just revel in the rain, and hope, at the end of it all, some of it would make sense.
What is the point of second chances on a day like this?
I lost a piece of my heart today, and I hate myself just a little bit more because of it.
* * *
“This house is like a corpse now, Wyatt. A fucking corpse,” she shouts at me and slams a glass of vodka on the wall, tears streaming down her face. “Who am I anymore? Why are we doing this?” I hold her close and whisper that the world is still spinning.
“I understand what you meant, Erin.” I take a deep breath as I open the door and make my way inside the corpse. She’d been engaged before she met me; she lost her husband to war. That’s a story for another day. I have many of those. Wyatt, the storyteller.
This little house feels smaller, like the walls are closing in, making me claustrophobic. I spent so little time here before it happened, before she got sick. “Before she died!” There, I say the words out loud, and they echo against the walls.
And after that, I never want to leave, but duty and honor come before things like love and family.
The thing about being in the army is that there are no four walls you can genuinely call home. Home is the people you leave behind. The people who spend endless days and nights praying for your safety and, above all, your return. And when those people are gone, you kind of roam around like a body without a soul.
I wander from room to room, trying to catch a whiff of her vanilla perfume. I hated that sweet shit so much. I keep floating about, uncertain what I should do.
