Driving to
Garrington Hilltop was almost always a peaceful, beautiful trip – excepting for
Friday afternoons or Sunday evenings during the school year when the young
college-folk were transiting back and forth between Greenboro College campus
and their parents’ houses in the hills some 60 miles away – but today, on this
bitterly cold mid-February morning, the view were especially spectacular. US Highway 68 curled gently around the
Scataway Mountains, ducking in and out of snow-speckled firs whose bright white
coats glimmered in the late morning sun.
The trip took a
bit longer than most, accounting for the Nor’easter that had trekked through the
South and up the Eastern seaboard late in the week, passing though Appalachia
and All Points Nowhere until settling over New England for an extended 48-hour
stay. Having worn out its welcome, the
storm left a simple yet poignant going-away-present consisting of icy roads and
sub-zero temps, wrapped in a bow of sun-glare and moist, heavy snow to shovel,
Thank You Very Much and Good Riddance.
Michael parked
in his usual spot adjacent to the Miller Cabin, an old, long-ago abandoned
structure that boasted floor-to-ceiling rotted wood and a roof made of
something out of CBS’s Survivor lore. That it remained standing for so many years
was somewhat of a mystery. He’d never
seen anyone walk in or out (the front door – if that’s what you could call a
large piece of plasterboard with a 4-inch diameter hole where a doorknob should
be -- had always been nail-gunned shut), so there was evidently nobody taking
care of the albatross. But what was
perhaps more amazing was that local teens or 20-something’s hadn’t found a way
to use the building for weekend shenanigans.
Maybe it was imputing too altruistic a motive to believe that the
youngin’s didn’t want to defile something next to a sacred place, but Michael
could live with that belief. After all,
you have to believe in something, right?
The late-winter
wind whipped viciously for a few seconds, re-wrapping his scarf around his neck
on its own. Michael pulled his orange knit
Flyers cap over his ears a bit tighter before reaching into his Accord’s back
seat and pulling out the large, industrial-sized fiber shovel that he’d
purchased at Sam’s Club years ago.
* * *
He knew the 76
paces like he knew his house in the dark.
Even though snow covered the stone walkway up the short hill and then
down to the left the remaining 10 paces, he didn’t need a map to know where he was
going. Michael had performed this ritual
many times before, and the topography did not change. Sometimes it was sunny and bright, sometime
overcast. Other times unseasonably warm
and sometimes, like today, bitterly cold.
But each time, he remembered the 3-inch hump about halfway up, careful
to step over or around it so as not to lose his footing on the slippery root-knot
of tree that peeked out for a foot or so from its underground labrynth. He knew that the slight indentation in the
ground that awaited him after his left turn at the top of the small hill was
just enough to trip him up if he wasn’t careful, and so he also always adroitly
skipped past it, sparing himself a minor disaster each time.
And he
certainly knew where to stop. After
counting the requisite 10 remaining paces from the turn, if upon looking
straight out past the Oak tree its left wraggly limb was set exactly atop the
peak of Scataway Craig’s Mountain in the distance, he knew he was exactly where
he was supposed to be.
* * *
He began
shoveling gently at first, careful not to clang or scrape what was
underneath. The snowpack could be
deceptive – he learned this the hard way in 2000, when a less-than-thoughtful
lunge set the tip of his shovel against the cement, resulting in a loud,
dissonate shriek that sent more than 1 bird flying away in distress. But today, after just a minute or so of
carefully shuffling the snow away, he was already almost there. All that remained was a powdery few
millimeters of flakes that just barely covered the writing on the slab. Michael dropped the shovel to his side and
bent down, wiping the last remnants of snow away to reveal what was
underneath:
“MICHAEL PATRICK
PARKER, 10/15/65 - “
That his date of
death was not on his gravemarker was of course no surprise. But what always did stand out for Michael –
in the preceding few years more than ever – was his date of birth. Especially so this year, in 2014. It seemed as though his distance from the
year 1965 was advancing more and more rapidly each year, like scientists tell
us the stars are moving farther away from each other and at a quicker pace ever
since the Big Bang. He was already
knocking on 50’s door. If the next 30
years went by as quickly as the last 30, he’d be an old man in no time. If he was lucky.
* * *
Michael quickly
stood back up, grabbing his shovel in the process, ready to do what he came
there to do. This was always the most
difficult part, the most personal part.
He began
shoveling again about three feet to the left of his tombstone after
thumbnailing the distance with his eyes.
There was no need for a specific measurement, it was always in the same
place, always the same distance from his.
As it always would be.
It only took 5
shovel-fulls of snow to reveal. There
was no need to wipe away any residue to see it, because the snow pushed itself
aside as if working in silent concert with his shovel. The low winter sun peaked through the branches
of the tall oak, illuminating the name and dates on the silver-gray 2-foot by
10-inch concrete rectangle.
* * *
Michael and Deborah were high school
sweethearts. Yes, they had dated others
– they’d have been foolish not to – but they always found their way back to
each other. After graduating together in
Pipertown’s Class of ’83, they went their separate ways in college – Michael
attending Gettysburg College and Deborah choosing St. Joe’s – but it only took
2 years for them to realize that they never wanted to be apart again. Deborah transferred to Gettysburg, and so
they finished out their college educations together, both double-majoring in
English and Secondary Education, and both quickly snatching up high school
teaching gigs. At the same school, of
course.
There was the house, the dog, and all of the
other fundamental clichés associated with being young and in love: A too-expensive wedding, a long honeymoon in
Mexico, some mediocre financial problems and more than their fair share of
work-induced stress. Most of which was
relieved by lots of love-making and an equal measure of adult beverages at
McMichaelson’s Irish Pub. Theirs was, as
they say, the quintessential love story:
Kids fall in love, graduate together, find jobs, get married, and ride
into the sunset together with 2.2 kids.
At least that was how it was supposed to
go.
* * *
He
remembers the day vividly. January of
1999. A Thursday. Michael had already been home
from work at his
regular time but Deborah was late because of her doctor’s appointment. They’d tried, to no avail, to get pregnant,
and routine testing showed that Deborah has some issues that needed to be
looked into further. There was nothing
to worry about, or so they said – worst case scenario, they’d have to abandon
their fertility treatments and switch courses to adoption. Not what they wanted, but they could live
with that.
As soon as she
walked in the back door, he saw the tears welling up in her eyes. From the redness and swelling in her face, he
could see that this was not the first time she had cried that day.
Michael would
never forget the look in her eyes, her countenance, and would always remember
the words she said next, gliding effortlessly out of her mouth in a soft tone
that betrayed the fear inside her: “I
only have one month to live.”
* * *
Michael took off
his gloves and reached into his jacket’s inner pocket, pulling out the neatly folded
paper. He opened it up and read it one
more time. It was dated today,
February 14, 2014
To My Lovely Deborah,
The
years have gone by, but my heartache has not.
I remember both our first and last moments together like it was
yesterday: me, a geeky high school
sophomore, trying to get the attention of a cute and spunky cheerleader; then, seemingly
just a blink later, sitting next to you as you drew your last labored breath. I know it might not have been love at first
sight for you, but I fell hard the moment I first saw you and have been falling
ever since, even after you passed on.
When
I think about it, I realize the time between our first meeting and our last
moments together was miserably and unfairly short. I ask myself on an almost daily basis what
God would do this to a such a loving and happy couple. I still do not have an answer for that, and I
know I probably never will.
The
pain does not go away. It may subside
for a brief moment – maybe as the Red Sox won the World Series, or if I’m
tasting a particularly good steak or wine – but it always returns, like an
unwanted guest who doesn’t understand that it’s time to go, to move on. I would be lying to you if I said it was not
unbearable. It is more than I can take. It remains excruciating. It does not get better with time.
Nor
do I want it to. I do not want to be
happy-go-lucky as we were for those precious fleeting years.
I do not want to be content, to run my fingers through another’s hair,
to go on vacation together, to wake up next to someone else on a spring
morning. I have learned to accept the
pain, the misery, of losing the person you love the most. I think if the emptiness I feel every morning
when I wake up and every night as I go to sleep were gone, I would be even more
lonely than I already am. Imagine
that.
My
lovely wife, I know that I will see you again.
We will dance together, dine together, laugh and cry together, and make
love again some day. I do not understand
why I should be made to suffer so. All
that I know is that I shall bide my time in bitterness and loss, carrying that
cross alone, so that, some day, there is room for you next to me again.
I
will always love you, and you will always be my Valentine.
Michael bent down, lay the note face up on
his Wife’s gravemarker as he had laid a note every year for the past 15 years – being sure to gently cover it with some
snowpack – and walked back to his car.
* * *
The ride back was unremarkable, but was also a bit speedier so that he
could get home in advance of the latest Nor’easter already on its way up the
coast. He tuned Sirius to the 80’s
channel and was reminded that My Angel is, in fact, the Centerfold and that The
Reflex is an Only Child. It was amazing,
the memories that music could bring back to you.
