The incident occurred yesterday. Trapped in my house by the breath of death outside, I began to witness a similar effect within. I noticed it first in the living room. A faint shadow hovered near each of the couches. One, a reddish brown leather sofa, stood with its back to the front windows, while a green and white checkered couch resided perpendicular to the first. I stepped closer, uncertain if the light entering through the west window was the cause. A sound touched my ear, as soft and comforting as a fleece blanket sliding to the floor. Yet something about it made me start, and I backed into the kitchen, looking at the floor to avoid eye contact. I breathed easier in the kitchen, saying aloud, “Nothing unusual today.” Intending to make a snack, I opened the cupboard left of the sink and felt an involuntary shudder. The same force in the living room pervaded this wooden box. Mastering myself I reached inside, fingers tingling. The appendages were drawn by an unseen will to a glass pie pan, which I withdrew, trembling. I almost dropped the dish as I fingered it, and then it fell from my hands. In its semi-reflective surface I had seen the face of a woman, smiling with laughing eyes and curly hair. I dived to the floor and caught it before it broke. Thrusting it back into the cabinet, I could almost hear the words she had tried to convey to me.
I scrambled up the stairs in a hasty retreat. Unseen phantoms, burdened with memories, followed behind, and I sought to escape them. I found them wait even as I gained the landing. In my sons' room I saw the indistinct figure of an elderly man beckoning to me from a corner. I turned away, retreating into my own room. Images and whispers assailed me. I heard them calling from all over the house. Fragments echoed from the basement, from the attic, every room, and from the past, the present, and the future. Indistinct faces gazed out of the TV, the diploma on the wall. Seeking to submerge my consciousness I sat in the glare of my computer, but it offered no refuge. Searching among the mess of papers on the desk, my hand brushed a soft fabric, and it seemed to cling to me, like moss to a boulder, or a predator to its prey. I drew my hand back, and it followed, whispering softly across the surfaces. It landed in my lap, a white handkerchief, emblazoned in purple, with the simple words, “Embrace Life!”
These words spoke more to me than all the muddled whispers, imagined or real. I was alive, but even at the age of thirty, friends, family, and acquaintances had passed. The trend, I recognized in hindsight, was accelerating, and wouldn't stop until my end. But I could stop running from it. I squeezed the fabric, a reminder of a past life, and stood up. Its gentle texture comforted me as I walked from object to object, accepting the loss and expressing my gratitude for the loving hands which had passed each onto me. From my closet I took down an old, woolen sweater, holding it with outstretched arms. It seemed for a moment as if another resided there, ephemeral head and limbs pushed through the rough fabric. The vision faded, and I pulled it on. It felt warm, as if it contained a residual heat from another source.
I retraced my steps down the stairs, greeting each phantom in turn. I saw my two children playing independently in the living room. I sank into one of the couches and rejoiced in the familiar setting, as the sunlight infused the room with warmth. The comfortable peace of a quiet afternoon, the family together but each immersed in their personal design, suffused the room, in spite of my earlier predicament. I watched the two children as their separate games converged, interacted, and broke apart amicably. They would never know, or had barely known, some of those responsible for our good fortune. This is a fact true to all children, and therefore, all people lucky enough to have a measure of ease.
These couches, I thought, are a memorial of past, but a feature of the present.
I can never truly appreciate everything you did for me, more than these petty items I've gained, but they remind me of friends that are gone. The memories of the past that they reflect ease the enduring grief that should never be forgotten. The same items bring comfort to the living, and allow us to still hear a whisper of the voice that was.
We are surrounded by the dead, their mementos, their photos, and their gifts.
A reminder of our own mortality.
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