Hope is Hard to Kill

The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. Their room after they married.

The mind has a way of rewriting the past and covering every imperfect moment with a rosy filter. Each missed anniversary or birthday, eclipsed by the ones remembered. The time he surprised her with a trip to see Les Miserables on Broadway, or when he went back to the little gift shop in Ireland, while she napped in the hotel, to purchase a small heart-shaped locket she had admired. The roses on their anniversary, every year, of which she would save a single petal. Other recollections, concealed in cobwebs, hid in the corner of her mind. Each sarcastic dig over ten pounds she’d gained or a silly remark she’d made in front of his colleagues. The better times came out to play more often, memories dusted off and spit-shined to reveal their brightness.

Like his support when she almost gave up on earning her degree due to the relentless hours and stress of her internship.

“Remember Franklin D. Roosevelt’s words, hon,” he said. “When you come to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hold on.”

Now that she thought about it, his encouragement may have extended her life. If she hadn’t been at the hospital trying to rein in the chaos before the pandemic went too far out of control, she’d most likely be dead already. An urge to make the world better, to protect what she could, had driven her to stay. What wasn’t entirely clear, though, was if that was a blessing or a curse. But she was still holding on to that knot.

The street itself was wrecked, just rubble and remains, as she made her way home. The sight of what was left was worse than she thought. During the months of shelter in the hospital, it had seen everything from squatters, to looters, to finally the fires the desperate set for want of hope – last-ditch attempts to attract the attention of passing aircraft as they prayed for rescue. As she forced herself to walk into her – their - living room, the wreckage briefly disappeared from view. The crumbling, cold fireplace was alive with a blaze of warmth and illuminated bookshelves of travel souvenirs. The stained-glass lantern from Morocco made a kaleidoscope that undulated to the beat of its candle flame. She breathed in and could almost detect the sweet puff of whiskey emerging from his lips as he said goodnight. All imagination. Not even the kiss of a ghost could break into the protective shield.

A volley of coughs tore up her throat, shaking the scene in front of her back to its true form. Continuing on, she stumbled over a piece of debris. She looked down, a reflexive act, to see what she tripped over. Beneath the ashy pile of rubble, she saw part of the gold-filigree frame that had held the painting purchased on the bridge in Prague.

“Are we ever going back to the hotel, hon?” he asked, as she stood on the bridge watching the artist bringing life to canvas.

She laughed.

“Yes, silly. I just don’t want the image of this place to disappear. I just keep turning around to look at that castle up there…trying to imprint it into my mind forever.” She nodded her head toward the artist with a hopeful smile. “Maybe if I take one of these home…”

Of course, the painted image of the castle that had stood for over a thousand years was destroyed. Although she carried it in her mind, she knew that would soon be gone as well. Did the castle even remain standing? Had it been torn down, too, another victim of this nightmare?

She almost laughed as a mad thought skipped through her mind. She wondered if one of his fingerprints was still on the frame from the day he patiently hung it above the fireplace three times to get it exactly right to her eye (he had been patient, hadn’t he?). The dizziness from the coughing fit was almost overwhelming, but her thoughts spiraled to even crazier notions. Hadn’t she read that people shed about 40,000 cells every minute? She wondered if she could find a flake of dead skin or a fingernail clipping buried somewhere in the mess. A physical part of him. Something she could touch and hold onto.

She shuffled toward where their bedroom had been, kicking the debris and watching out for anything dangerous. She noticed a piece of wood in the shape of a bird. It was the macaw lovingly carved by a Belizean artist.

“That is the scarlet macaw,” a guide told them, as he pointed to one of the colorful birds during their adventure throughout the rainforests of Belize. “They are at risk, though, due to deforestation and illegal pet trade.”

“We really should do more to help,” she said. “So many animals struggling to survive…”

She craved a take-home reminder. “Let’s make this moment last,” she thought before she flew home with the carved bird and a promise to herself to do more to help the earth.

But time paraded by, no matter how tightly she held the moment. And promises were carefully placed on a dusty shelf, where they waited for attention like the dolls of an aging child.

Automatically, she headed for the bedroom. Averting her eyes from the bed, she shuffled towards the closet area where another fit of coughing had her doubled over. She lowered herself to the floor, onto what appeared to be a pile of blankets. Something crimson red caught her eye. She reached into the dusty hill of clothes and pulled on the piece of fabric. After she freed it from the cluster, she clutched the dress and brought it to her face, even though she could no longer smell anything. She closed her eyes.

She saw his usual composed expression change when she came out of the bedroom.

“New dress?”

His eyes moved from her face and traveled down her body, igniting a slightly-spicy undertone for the dinner party.

“I’m going to have to keep an eye on you tonight,” he said with a soft smile.

That had been shortly after she found the text messages from his colleague. He’d been eager to put her doubts to rest, and truth be told, she’d reminded herself that doubt has no place in true love’s knot. She had ached to believe him, to believe that he meant it when he said that it was a mistake and that he still wanted to be with her. So she held on, making new knots.

“Are you going to her place? No,” she pleaded, disgusted by the desperate tone in her voice. “Stop.”

But he didn’t hear her, as he tore some of his clothing off hangers and folded them into a suitcase.

"You can stay until our attorneys work things out," he said.

"Don't go."

Hope is hard to kill.

Her body jerked her back to consciousness. How strange to stare up through the skylight, at the wide-open sky. How did the glass survive? She saw a bird circling the sky looking for prey. She laughed as she realized the creature would soon be better off. They all would.

“Oh, what a life you and your babies will have! Enjoy every moment,” she called out before her voice crumbled into coughs.

Placing her hands on either side of her hips, she tried to push herself up to her feet. She didn’t have the strength. Her hand latched on to something hard and cool. And like the claw game from an arcade, she brought it up to reveal her prize. A heart-shaped locket, crushed but still whole. When she opened it, a pressed rose petal fluttered to her chest.

Her final take-home reminder.