Her frail hands gripped the built-in bookshelves on her left. Her husband had put them in when they built the house. They were well-made and well-painted, just like everything else her husband had ever done. Lovingly, she caressed each shelf; it brought her closer to him. When she reached the top shelf, her hand knocked off a piece of paper. She steadied herself and bent down to pick it up. It was yellowed with age and had been ripped hastily from a notebook. Opened, she found it to be merely one of her husband’s drawings for the garden. He was always making new plans for the garden. She always carried them out of a sense of obedience and love; obedience of her husband and love of gardening. She briefly became aware of the 50s stereotype she had inhabited, but it did not jar her; she had loved every moment in this house.
Her eyes looked out the window now. She had intended on seeing the garden, but instead briefly saw herself. As the elderly will do, she had become soft with age. Her snow-white hair had begun to thin, but still retained its natural wave. Skin had gathered at the neck and her face was definitely wrinkled, but not in an abhorrent way that so many young people feared. She noticed that she was bent over, damn back pain. She straightened herself to her full five foot, four inches and took notice of the her prominent chin, probably her strongest feature. It was not ugly to look at, but strong. Very strong. She noted that the slacks she wore did not show off her legs. Once, they had been beautiful, the envy of every red-blooded man within a ten-mile radius. But varicose veins had intruded and her diabetes caused her ankles to swell in an unsightly way. She covered up this flaw not because it was a flaw, but because it hadn’t always been there. What one may not see, she thought, may not exist.
She looked past herself now and into the garden. She did not see what it had become: overgrown, weed-choked, and riddled with gopher holes. Instead she saw it the way it had been. There had been heaps of day lillies on the left there, colors of red, orange, and deep purple. In the center of the yard was an apple tree. It was gone now of course, but she saw it in its glory with apples waiting to be picked and eaten while lazily laying in the yard. On the right had been the azaleas, Delaware Valley Whites. Every April they had bloomed copiously and beautifully. And the fragrance…the fragrance… They had been her husband’s idea and had bloomed beautifully until after the year he died. Her daughter said the soil must have just run out of nutrients, but the old woman in the window knew that the azaleas had felt her husband’s passing and ceased to exist.
Back to the room flooded with a cold, bright light. The pictures were gone and in their place dark blue rectangles, darker than the walls that had faded over years and years. She made her way to the front door, still walking in the path she had trodden so many times, ignoring the thick nap that now existed where sofas and ottomans had been. She took one last look at the room that had held family thanksgivings, Christmases, birthdays, and Easters and took a step back and gasped. The letter she clutched in her arthritic hand sailed wistfully to the floor; she did not believe her old eyes.
In front of her stood every friend and relative she had known. They were not sad, but were not overwhelmingly happy, either. They seemed to be in an observational mode. The family room that had been so coldly bare before was now filled with the hum of people, people she had loved and cherished for so long. Suddenly, a ripple shook the crowd and a break formed in the middle. She saw her husband walking towards her and did not understand. Her husband was dead, how could she…? Oh…
Oh…
He came up to her and gripped her tightly. She ran her hands up his shoulders until she could wrap her arms around him. She held him, her face pressed against his chest. He murmured in her ear and she nodded and began to weep. Music came from nowhere and enveloped the two lovers as they traveled back in time. The paralysis from his stroke disappeared; the veins in her legs vanished and her blouse and slacks turned into a dress. As Benny Goodman played, the two lovers danced around as the people-filled room made space for their first dance. And as the music ended, the people vanished and the cold light returned to the room. The letter, now open on the floor of the family room fluttered in the wake of an unseen breeze. A strong, slanted handwriting coated the yellowed paper.
“I think we should put the azaleas on the west side…” the letter began. And for one shining second, the azaleas bloomed a pure white and were gone just as quickly as they had bloomed. It was over.
