Our Song

Evening has given way to night. Gently, I settle next to you on the comfortable, old love seat and reach for your hand. You snatch it away, again. It cuts me to the quick, but I hide the pain, understanding that the reaction is but part of your demented state. Since the accident, your presence here in our cozy home has been clouded by a haze I can't see. Nevertheless, I feel the frigidity of your expressions and it serves as an excruciating reminder of the immeasurable distance between us.

I hold steadfastly to the bond between us, though it seems you shrink from it. I will find a way to reach you, despite the resistance. The key must lie in the routines we've become accustomed to. I will continue to practice them and my faith in our love will not falter. This moment now, at the close of day, has always been the epitome of our romance. The warmth of our closeness here on the worn, but familiar cushions that have become a part of our lives.

Do you remember when we first laid eyes on this love seat and knew it had to come home with us? We were young, but the years passed since have proven our instincts to be right. I can't see it in your eyes now. Something changed on the day of that horrible crash that maintains this disconnected state and I will not rest until I've found a way to bridge the gap.

I cling to the hope – no, not hope, but confidence - that the memories are still there, only suppressed by a wall that I must break down. I am equally sure that our evening ritual has the power to accomplish it. Of all the things I've tried, it's the one you react to. Your reactions aren't what I've yearned for – yet.

I can still recall the day we finally spoke our vows to one another, and that first dance as husband and wife. There had been no doubt during the planning of the wedding of the song that would play. It had been our song since the first time we'd danced.

This love seat has become a part of us, because of that song. Yes, it's just a piece of furniture. It's scarred and dented and its cushions no longer spring back quickly. But it's where we've spent our evenings together and it's where, every night, I've taken your hand, walked over to our old turntable and placed the needle on the only song it's played for years.

Every night, I've held you in my arms as we twirled around the living room to that song. When the music ends, we walk, hand-in-hand, to the bedroom where I make you comfortable, then return to the living room to turn out the lights before joining you in our bed.

So much has changed changed on the day a careless driver took the life of our only son. I remember all too well, the doctor ignoring me as he spoke directly to you, pity dripping in her voice. Perhaps it was simply easier for her, as a woman, to speak to you. Maybe she thought that only a mother could understand the grief of losing a child.

The days following were confusing. I can't recall, now, how we came home, I only know that you've been lost to me since that day. And that I miss him, but still feel connected to him, more closely than ever, somehow. I want you to feel him, too, but there's no sign of anything but pain in your eyes. And fear. Of me.

It's incomprehensible. Do you blame me somehow? Each night, as I start the music and hold you, that panicked expression stays fixed on the face I love, while you seem to look right through me. Each night I pray that you'll turn to me in our bed and smile, but you simply lie, cowering, while I turn out the lights and take my spot on the bed. It's more than a dedicated husband should have to bear, but I cannot give up on you. I cannot give up on us.

Patiently, I reach for your hand again. Though tears stream down your face, you allow the ritual to begin, although your eyes don't meet mine. No, it's that vacant stare, again. But we're dancing. And I will never give up on you. I'll never let go.

Thanks for Reading! This was written for the Vocal Rituals of Affection Challenge. I hope you enoyed it.