Sacred Reserve

Death greets me empty-handed.

There's no choir of angels. No When the Saints Go Marching In. Not even a welcome home toast with a five dollar glass of wine.

I’d settle for Morse Code and a flickering light-switch. A wobbly burgundy-skirted card table, a ouija board, even Professor Trelawny's crystal ball if it meant channeling you. I'd steal Dumbledore's deluminator--the one he bequeathed to Ron--if it could bring me back to you.

I need to know that Tracey will be all right. That you'll both be fine.

But how could you be?

*

My hands stretch out in vain, all ten fingers struggling.

I can’t even begin to grasp...

*

Time ditches me. Leaves me alone in this maze.

There's no white light. No wise ambassador waiting for me. This isn't King's Cross Station.

Death is what's left of me now. Shadow drawn to light.

I am strained ears. Fingers pressed against the glass.

*

You say I'm fine. Getting by. As well as could be expected.

You are holding it together.

Stiff dry-cleaned black jacket. Creased black pants. Starched white collar. Handsome in my favorite burgundy tie. Striking as Sunday flowers on a balmy Tuesday. A leaflet in your hands. My face you slowly trace with your musician's fingers. But I can't feel your warmth.

The words you send me off to are smooth, sweet lines -- that song you wrote and sang for me on our green park bench by the splashy canal when shades of dusk clung deep and low against the broiling Georgia line. That was something. Lovelier than all this gray.

You are sun-kissed now, tinged with red. My perfect hot mess. Holding onto Tracey’s hand. A guide rope.

You and our brilliant daughter are my receiving line. All looky-loo thank-you’s and I’m-so-sorry's and we’ll-get through-this-together's. What do they know?

*

You’re forgetful, you know. You need me. To remind you. Your meds are on the bedside table.

I can’t be gone. I can't be.

You need me.

*

The neighbor's Chicken Kiev and Tracey's mac & cheese are getting cold. You're locked in, thousand yard staring down the chardonnay swirling round the bottom of your glass. Its buttery oak has lost all meaning.

Never was your drink. I can see that now. You sampled it with me and it became ours.

Remember how the air tasted honey-crisp, like an apple, that April morning? We met beneath that wide white wind-swept tent. Remember that no-name farmer's market west of Boulder? Random encounter turned first date. We couldn't wait to dive in.

We bought two bottles, Merlot and Chardonnay, a bottle of raw honey, brie and toast points. A crate of fruit and veg.

Remember how we rushed back to your place? Planned to pull it all together with your Cornish game hens. Make something decadent.

You poured the Chardonnay so generously. I had to stay.

Never did get round to that other bottle, did we?!

We got started. And we got real. And life spilled across our table, more profound and plentiful than Easter dinner. We were the last best chocolate bunny-filled basket atop a field of crunchy green tinsel grass. And we were magic.

*

We began as couples do. In bed. Stripped of covers. Without protection.

I never needed anything to keep your love from me.

*

Forever laid itself before us, everything possible and promising, all lined up in perfect rows. Grapes growing on the vine. We aimed to harvest.

Our newness became our perfect soil. Blackberries, cherries, strawberries, and apricots clinging to the blessed vine.

And we had time.

*

D'Wayne pours you another. Some cheap chablis. To take the edge off.

And when the last to leave leaves, your shoulders cave.

Party's over.

I'm to blame.

*

Time moves. Slowly.

I am everywhere and nowhere.

I am the darkness creeping into the movie theatre when you stake claim to the long dark row alone at the back. No one there to hold your hand. Soundtrack crackling like a super-villain. And I'm screaming where I stand.

But no one can hear me now.

*

I'll spend whatever time I'm given: days, months, years.

I will find my way back to you. Can you feel me holding on?

*

I am that faint tap-tap, tap-tap, forever tapping on the glass.

The echo tumbling across the moors to haunt your dreams.

*

We are Hermione and Ron. We are forever.

Have you forgotten?

*

Your brother comes, stays. Stray cat. Sprawled out flat. Floppy feet careening across our sleeper sofa.

That voice of his is velvet. Like yours. I can see your jealousy begin to fade, but you know you're faking it now. For him. He needs that. And you need him to need you. Fill the void.

But ain't nobody good as me. You think that now just like you thought it way back when. There's a rhythm to the charade. The beat goes on. But things have changed. You've changed.

D'Wayne needs a cause. Something, or someone, to call his own. Time that boy settles down. Some young, sweet talking, kind of a sure-thing should do the trick. You try telling him.

But you know. Ain't nothing certain.

He sees you holding back. Tennessee Walking Horse steered back to the gate. Blinders making you myopic.

You're steady bucking at the reins. I see you waiting for a sign.

Not my race you say. My race is run.

You know I love to hear that! But I know better. There’s kick left in you yet.

You’ll return to the playing field. You have time.

You say maybe in the spring. You think someday, maybe.

For now, you’re upright and walking on, and that’s enough.

*

Tracey walks ahead of you, pride in her step. Her friends are giggling and happy, heads held high, shoulders squared, cap and tassel, paper and leather in their hands. Navy dummy scrolls. A right of passage. The university will send the real ones soon. They'll come by mail.

And I am angry at the postman. And the dean. And her professors. And all these friends I never got to meet who circle round our girl. And I am angry with the world, and with myself, and with you and with everybody. And I scream into the void!

I should be there. I'm Tracey's mom.

I should be baking cakes. And making plans. Sticking my busybody nose in where it doesn't belong. A mother's prerogative.

I would toast to her success, and to her future. And say the words she needs to hear from her momma. I am immensely proud of you. So incredibly proud of my girl. For now and for always.

But I'm long gone. Missing in action.

*

You're on the road again. Escaping the silence. Those four tight walls are caving in. Tracey's got her life to live. She settled into an apartment just north of Portland. And it's good.

You're headed out to greet another sleepy sun, so I jump on.

You've always done that. Hit the road to clear your mind. The coast is calling.

I love how you always make time for music. For our songs. It's your Nirvana.

I cannot feel the breeze but love being with you on your bike. And suddenly all goes still. We're going nowhere. You are alone and tangled up in jumbled thoughts.

We've pulled over to the edge. The placid Pacific’s yawning, bored of us. You aren't yourself now. You've lost what gave you light.

And it dawns on me. I've taken it from you. I see how selfish I've become.

Mine are the hands always holding you back.

*

You will be fine.

When I let go.

*

I’ve been waiting. I see that now.

I've been waiting for her. For you.

*

She’s the one. The next, the last, to love you.

You'll met her on a Saturday. Wine tasting in Napa. Where we always planned to take a second honeymoon.

And since you're both alone, why not enjoy the tour together? And you'll be laughing, effortlessly, so much so it won't occur to you to reenforce your walls.

Farewell to barricades.

And by the time goodnight lingers on her doorstep, she'll ask you in, and you'll smile that hound dog special you once reserved for me.

And without a moment's hesitation, you'll step inside. Close the blinds. Gently lock the front door on your way back to her kitchen.

And she'll pull down a dusty bottle of Merlot and two fine glasses you won't be needing. You'll pour the wine right in her mouth and taste it dancing on her tongue.

And she'll wear lavender and lace. For your eyes only.

And you'll embrace. For the first time. Lovers and friends.

And so it begins.

*

Her heart's no fragile thing in need of saving.

She will challenge you in ways I never thought to.

*

Time will pass. I see that clearly. There's no straight line like I wanted, but a curving gentle arc.

And one day, soon, she'll be taking up your eyeglasses to wash the lenses with that soap she raves about. She makes sure her man can see what's good in life. And I feel warmer.

She’s a million waiting-wondering-hoping moments. But she won’t press. She doesn't need to know where you hide your bruises.

She understands. Her Stan’s with me.

*

She sings her own song. Her own anthem.

And you've come to love her for the songs she hums. You sing her melody like you’ve loved her lyrics all your days.

And in the morning, she will remind you. Your meds. They're on the bedside table, where she's placed a glass of water. Because you need that.

*

One day soon, I don't know when, but you’re both long retired, you'll have moved to her hometown to settle down. She’ll introduce you to her longtime wine guy, to that perfect green glass bottle that he’s been saving out back beneath the crates and stacks of bills of lading.

It’s got her name on it. It’s been waiting for this moment.

And you will know it in an instant. The very second it touches your lips.

It caresses your thirsty tongue and slides smooth as vanilla ice cream down your throat on the hottest day in May.

This one isn't Chardonnay.

This one's Merlot.

Layered, bittersweet, it's that richly complex taste your soul desires. Like a trio playing jazz, it improvises. The symphony sweetly meanders down backroads you've never dared to trespass.

Black cherries, plums, and cocoa are brilliantly complex. Aged Madagascar vanilla brings it right up to the chorus. And you've found yourself, in time with her, and life is so delicious. She is heaven to you now. I am receding.

The taste you longed for rolls across your tongue, filling you in ways I could not imagine. You're home my dear, her darling. And I take flight.

*

From time to time, when life is slow and nothing's pressing, you'll be tempted to enjoy a glass of Chardonnay, if only for nostalgia. When you're watching those old movies we once adored. Goodbye my love. And you'll remember we were characters together in a story that wasn't about us but ended well. And you'll recall how we once burnt the brie and made love five straight hours. And how we wasted so much time fighting about nothing and making up and beginning again.

And you'll lament how we never had the chance to say goodbye. The warmth inside this light is overwhelming.

I was your only Hermione. But you never were just my Ron.

And that's okay. I know that now.

I am okay. I'm on my way now.

*

You will be fine. You are so fine.

*

And when you see your new wife's glass is shy of half-full, in need of topping off, perfect gentleman that you are, you don't miss a beat. Another bottle of Merlot is at the ready.

And you'll pour all that you can into her glass, and you'll be happy. And when she looks into your eyes, she won't see me.

***

Copyright © 05/21/2021 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.