The Window

I’ve looked out this window a million times. It’s the very same window you used to look out when you sat in your chair reading the newspaper or watching a football game on a lazy Saturday afternoon. For some reason, I’ve always found comfort in this room, looking out this window, season after season...with you, sitting in your chair, looking out this window, too. This window...your chair...and you. 

But, today, as I sit in your chair and gaze through these familiar panes of glass, I feel like a stranger in a foreign land. The view outside this window changes little, even through the seasons, but its familiarity offers me no comfort. Instead, it serves as another bitter reminder that life goes on as usual, all around me, with no regard for my feelings. How dare it taunt me! Doesn’t the world know nothing is the same? Inside this house, life, as I knew it...as we knew it...has stopped. Sometimes, I feel as though the life inside me has stopped, too. 

Sometimes, I walk around the house, wandering from room to room, with tears flowing down my face. I walk around and around, not speaking a single word. But, while I may appear to be dazed or deep in trance, my mind is hyper-aware of everything in my surroundings. Every little thing seems to take on special meaning.  Every single thing holds a memory. Today, it is the window...the one right next to Anthony’s chair.

I’ve always been the sentimental type, freely (and passionately) attaching feelings to the moments in life that have touched my heart...And then, in that great spirit of sentimentality, I hold them close so they are readily available for recall. Each time I relive a memory, my emotions wash over me and flood all my senses. I not only feel, but I see and smell and hear bits and pieces of these events, as if living them for the first time, all over again. But, of course, the re-living is only in my head and always leaves me wanting more. I guess we can never get enough of a good thing.

Since Anthony’s passing, I surprise myself by remembering the most random things. And, sometimes, I’m even more surprised by what sparks my memory. I could catch sight of the most ordinary, mundane thing, and before I know it, I’m watching a slide show of freeze-frame vignettes...each one depicting a scene from some bygone moment I shared with Anthony in that very same spot.  That’s exactly what happened when I looked out the window...the one next to Anthony’s chair.

How many times have I seen Anthony sitting in his chair, looking out that window? How many times has he called me over to look, too? “Hey, Treesee, come ‘ere. Look at this! Hurry!” Running from the kitchen...my hands dripping water all over the floor because, in my haste, I forgot to grab a towel...I arrive at his chair to find him smiling that smile of his as he’s staring through the glass, eyes fixed upon a hummingbird dipping into the flower basket. Then, without moving or breaking his stare, Anthony says, in a prayerful whisper, “Isn’t he beautiful?” I look at the tiny fellow poking around in the flowers for a second before turning my attention to the big fellow in the chair. When I murmur, “Oh, yeah. He sure is beautiful,” I’m not referring to the bird. 

How do I make the beautiful memories stop hurting? Why does their beauty intensify my pain and make missing him so horribly unbearable? 

I’ve been racking my brain, trying with all my might to remember any incident...an argument...an indiscretion...an act of dishonesty or betrayal...anything to taint my memory of Anthony, hoping something bad might make me miss him a little less. But I can’t remember anything...because he never hurt me. Ever. He was faithful and loyal to me, without fault. He told me, many times, that he’d rather die than hurt me. (Didn't he realize that dying would hurt me more than anything?)

Yes, I know how lucky I am to have had a love so pure, so perfect. And, of course, I am thankful I have so many beautiful memories of Anthony...Yet, in the true spirit of being human, my selfishness and greed take over and all I want is more...more moments with Anthony, more memories with Anthony...more Anthony. I want to walk by the window...the one next to his chair...and see him sitting there, just like he used to. I want to be able to go over to him and throw my arms around him and feel him hold me. But that’s not going to happen. 

As each day passes without him, the reality of Anthony being gone sinks in just a little bit more. I get it...He's not coming back. So, since the love of my life is gone, and since it's so damn hard to just keep breathing without him, I'm wondering...Is it too much to ask that one day I’ll be able to look out that window again without crying?