I Almost Sing The Fortress Bella

If I didn't have any memory of who I once was, then I feel that my heart wouldn't be so heavy. I wouldn't cry uncontrollably over a loss I couldn't quite remember. And I wouldn't long to hear the voice of some dear, distant figure.

I've been here for a thousand evenings or so. Waking up with no real purpose.

Aimless.

Waiting for something; for someone.

You'd think I'd have a deliberate routine by now or at the very least, understand my placement. Maybe gain my footing.

But no.

Things haven't gone the way I've expected; all of my attempts at making sense of my surroundings have been futile.

I do things and I'm not sure why I do them.

I have thoughts and I'm not sure why I have them.

I become exhausted when I think too hard or try to do something outside of my usual, unintentional routine. I immediately become too weak from my efforts and fall asleep wherever I am. It's an occurrence that never fails.

And when I wake up, it's evening again and I'm staring out at an open door in the den of this familiar yet desolate house.

I spend my evening doing three things.

First, I make dinner. In the fridge, there are only ever enough ingredients for 2 servings of 1 meal.

And for a reason I’m not so sure of, I only ever have the urge to make one specific meal: sweet corn chowder.

When it’s time to eat, I set a bowl of chowder at one seat and another at the other.

I sit down at the table and watch the steam rise from the bowl that sits across from me. Watching the steam rise to the ceiling calls my attention to the empty seat across from me.

In a gentle transient memory, I recall being with someone that I really loved. I can almost remember the texture of his beard, the warmth of his hands, and the rhythm of his voice. If I am still enough, I can almost sense him sitting in the seat across from me. I can almost feel his eyes on me, watching me eat, waiting for me to look up at him.

Almost.

I wonder where he is. I wonder if he'll come back. I miss him.

Second, I go out into the backyard and sing a tune that seems to be lodged in my consciousness. I sing until I can't sing anymore; until I begin to lose my composure and I weep.

I weep under the pear tree right next to the statue of the weeping Madonna holding her baby. I weep for all the things I can almost remember. For the loss of the man I knew I loved. For the precious life that I believe was mine.

I cry until the sun is just about gone from the sky; until I'm having trouble seeing 4 feet in front of me.

And lastly, I waltz into the bedroom and slip into bed. I don't bother to turn on any lights. The dark blue light escaping from the sole window in the room is enough. The way the light projects itself onto the white walls is enough.

I lie there in bed - still and stoic.

I wait to hear the whistle of that distant train; the one I hear every night. I've grown quite fond of that sound. I love the way it rips through the silence.

I wait to feel the weight of someone on the other side of the bed. To hear his limbs rustling in the sheets. And to feel his busy mind turn quiet as we drift asleep.

And oh, there goes that train... yet there is no weight on the other side of the bed.

What a pity.

Before I drift off to sleep, I try and direct my focus. I try to remember who I used to be. I try and remember the man who is supposed to be in that empty seat, on that empty side of the bed.

I get glimpses of short scenes when I'm asleep but I can never recall them when I wake.

I see that man and a ring on my finger. We're in the house that I'm in now. I hear him telling me, "I'm excited about this new step." He's saying it over and over while smiling at me. But his smile seems a little forced. His voice is a bit reserved.

I see us at the table together. We're eating sweet corn chowder and he's saying, "I know that this is your favorite...maybe you can hold this down." I feel his eyes on me as I try to eat. He seems concerned and because of this, he is barely touching his food.

The next thing I see is an open door leading to the backyard. I'm lying on the couch in the den and I can see him outside building, what looks like to me, a wooden crib. He's humming a familiar tune. The sun is setting behind him and I hear the whistle of a train in the distance. He glances over at me and smiles.

The last scene that comes to my mind is a frantic one. I see the color drained from his face. He's staring down at me intently and I'm drifting in and out. I feel the heat of a bright light on me and I hear him saying, "Look at our baby... focus on our baby."

I feel myself losing consciousness and I feel too weak to open my eyes. But I hear him chanting something in my ear, "Don't go like this...stay here with me...let's start today over...I can make it better."

I feel myself slipping further away from him and all I can remember is him saying,

"...let's start today over."

I vowed in my heart that I would.