I saw my husband everywhere that first year. Running mad cap into our coffee shop after glimpsing him placing an order, he turned to my anxious voice, stealing my breath, only not to be him. I saw him at the bus stop, only he never rode the bus. The gym. Across the room at Christmas parties, just like the one at our house, the night the police came to tell me...
I finally gave up chasing ghosts, afraid I might find him, after so much time.
They never found his body after the plane went down, only so much twisted metal and molten plastic clinging to charred stumps of once regal trees. I often wonder where he went.Did some higher power whisk him away, sparing his pain, only to torment me? Is he really gone?
On a bad day, I still ask these questions.
I met Jon three years later through a well meaning friend. He was quiet and gentle and I needed a warm body to replace the corpse I slept with each night, in the hollow space where Ethan used to sleep. The boys needed a father, to teach them things men teach boys to make them strong. Jon never did that, he was only a body, a place holder in the equation of life, that led to division.
The day Jon leaves, I start driving and do not stop for days.
I find myself staring at the hard surf, wishing the ocean waves would carry me away or pummel me against the rocks. I don't know what town I ended up in, road signs were no longer important, as long as the asphalt led away. Coming to the end of roads, I parked behind a dumpster and stumbled my way across the sand to the sound of the waves.
I am still looking for Ethan...
...pathetic, I know.
Be sure to check out part two here.