I BRING YOU YOUR WIFE

He summons. My eyes open. I look over to the dark corner of my room. I feel rather than hear his earnest words.

Bring me my Nene, my little girl.

Of course Daddy, I promise.

Good night, sweetheart, good night.

My throat catches. My heart aches. He would say that when I was a little girl. A pure, delicious thrill would sweep over me that would make me want to cry. I matter.

***

Cold Christmas morning dawns with a misty breath of damp, hazy fog. We go to him. In the gloomy chill and eerie cast, the lonesome dead lay on pristine slanting hills. Silhouette of gnarly, bare trees frame the somber cemetery, their boughs drenched in dew. Trailing wisps of fog lace and drift low over long rows of tombstones. No one but us visit.

Bundled and bowed, feeble on my arm, she falteringly makes her way to him. My mother’s steps are heavy. Old. Reaching him, she stoops awkwardly and her fingers trace the etched name. Drawing smooth circles around his name, she tenderly caresses her beloved. She straightens and looks down at her dewy fingers laced with tombstone grime, with him. With cold wet hands she cups her cheeks and closes her eyes. In a quiet, frail trance she rubs him into her. In steady rhythm, she presses him onto her eyelids, lips, her chin. Lowering her hands, she loosens her scarf and clasps her neck, pushing him into her pores, rubbing deeply. He whispers to her.

Drink me Nene…I come in.

Glow seeps into her sallow, sunken face. She blinks, breaking trance. Doleful, barren eyes fill with a warm gleam. Catching a glimpse of the past, what was, I see her and revel. She filled our pages and spaces. Fearsome mother and warrior woman: seeking, hurtling and restless. Gushing with life, yielding and wielding, she is fire…his wife.

Memories and images flicker, quickly fading. Looking around, I see only this morose, wan woman. Gaunt. Pierced by loss, she is left bereft. I hurt for her.

She lowers to a worn chair, swaying. Catching her, I cover her with a blanket. I hold her to me. Squeezing eyes shut, my chest tightens. I wish for her solace, comfort. At her quavering sigh, I let go. The keening starts. I watch her yearn; it withers me. Stepping back, I give him his Nene.

She stares at his tombstone. He lures. Tethering herself to his grave, he holds her. He strokes and she is consoled. She is wife, his woman, devoted in life, in death, in the stream of eons. Lost in her mourning, she whispers to him. Her words fraught with worry and steeped with longing. She questions. She hankers. Beseeches. Laughs. Scolds. Whispering like a schoolgirl, her expressions are ardent, petulant. Her tales, lonely.

“Are you in heaven?”

“I would make you coffee…”

“You are happy, yes?”

“Do you sit with me at night?”

Moments pass, the whispering trails off. Spent and wretched, she slumps in her chair. Her little fragile body curls in. I think of a small dejected girl. She shivers, cold stealing into her folds and bones. Her face, ashen. A mewling wind picks up, urging me to worry.

I near the little one. Gently touching her, the moist sheen of her crumpled face moves me. Her eyes open, I fall into desolate pools of ragged, relentless grief. Her hollow cheeks streaked and stained with dirt, with sorrow.  Her eyes wail, knowing we must go. She trembles, dreading the emptiness of leaving him. Untended. Alone.

Looking beyond the cemetery gates and the vast swath of purple grey sky, the pulse of the living beckons.  I go to gather what is left of her. Straining, I try to lift her. Her body is heavy, sodden with the anguish of leaving him. I can not move her. Feeling worn and scant, all light leaves me. Grimly, I plead with him. Please, let her go. She is COLD.

A grip eases and lets go. Weaning her from him, I pull her to the living. She stands. Facing him, she draws from within. The tethers fall and she smiles a lingering farewell, luster in her eyes. As she speaks, I see her. I am riveted. She is womanly and beguiling. Soaring strong and steady, she is radiant. His beautiful wife steps closer to him. Palm on tombstone, on him, she whispers:

“I love you, I love you, I love you….”

I cannot speak. Taking her hands, we turn for the gates. Bracing ourselves against the hiss and heave of wind, I hear faint words come from the singing whistle of wind. I strain to listen. A thrill sweeps over me:

Good night sweethearts, good night.

His little girls walk away.

In the gloomy chill and eerie cast, the lonesome dead lay on pristine slanting hills.

***