A Short Story (Fiction – Kind Of)

       John stood in the cold bedroom staring into the dresser mirror and stroked a strand of white hair from his face. His skin sagged around his high cheekbones and neck. The white shirt and black tie made him look even more pale than he already was. The sound of the old-fashioned alarm clock, which set on nightstand, the methodical ticking of the seconds, felt slower and louder than ever. He looked around the room. How quickly had everything turned from their haven into this stale museum. He once loved being here, feeling her warmth and comfort within these walls. They had gone through so much together. Here, they had learned how to pray together before they would turn off their lights, before the ticking of the clock would fade into the night and return with the sun peeking through lace curtains. His eyes wandered to the yellowed wedding picture on her side of the bed. Where had the years gone? Now, he hardly recognized himself in the mirror. Unlike Sue, age hadn’t done him favors. But her beauty had always remained, even when her hair turned from deep auburn to grey. He had fallen in love with her warm smile sixty-two years ago. Almost every day she had brushed it with touch of ruby red lipstick. He had nagged her nearly as many times as she had put it on, told her that she didn’t need it, reminded her she was beautiful without it. Then, four days ago, she left that smile like a thin crack on a fragile vessel, right there in their bedroom, as he kissed her for the last time.

He turned the metal key of the wardrobe and pulled on the ornate handles of the oak doors, just as he had done for over sixty years. For a moment he closed his eyes and took in the familiar scent of line-dried, freshly ironed linen. It was her smell. The doors creaked open and gave full view of his neatly organized clothes. He ran his gnarled fingers along the hooks of the coat hangers, which all stretched one inch apart across the wooden rod. The sweaters, the button up dress shirts, vests, and pants hung neatly ordered by color and by how frequently he used them. He caught a glimpse of the scratchy, knitted holiday sweater in the back. What had Sue been thinking when she had wrapped it for him all those years ago? It never saw the twinkling lights of another Christmas since. He smiled.

Then, as he spotted the black suit, his smile crumpled under the weight of the pain, something that came from deep within his chest. He held back the tears and slowly pushed aside the charcoal and navy-blue suit. He reached for the one he always wore to funerals and laid it on the bed. He felt his age even more as he thought about how things had changed over the decades, how people rarely wore black suits to these occasions anymore.

John remembered how Sue had gone with him to buy the suit for his father’s funeral. She mourned well with him through all their losses and had such wisdom about when to speak and when to be silent. His father had gone home many years ago. How many? He couldn’t remember. Sue would have known. She was good with dates. Since that day, since the service and the repast, the suit carried with it a lingering sadness. It felt as if the scent of each person who hugged him had seeped into every ounce of the fabric. No dry-clearer could have cleaned the darkness out of it. Sue had hung it far back into the closet, where it remained undisturbed for what seemed like years, just like that ugly sweater.

As time passed though, the need for the suit became more frequent. Funerals for family members, friends, and acquaintances had been rare in the early years of their marriage. But over the years and with every unexpected call and the arrival of black-framed envelopes, the suit earned its spot closer to the front, became more and more accessible.

John gently wiped the black collar. He could almost feel Sue’s breath in his neck. How often had she stood behind him, her hand brushing across his shoulders wiping off lint and dust. He hated to be the one left behind. Why could he not have gone first? If he would have had a say in anything concerning this life, he would have worn it to his own funeral and be buried in it today. But it was Sue’s turn first.

He put the suit jacket over the white shirt and adjusted the tie and belt buckle. How could he ever make it through this day? Almost instinctively, he checked the flap over the pockets of the jacket. The right flap was tucked in. When he slowly reached into the soft material, he noticed a piece of paper, probably an obituary from a funeral past.

As he unfolded the note, he immediately recognized the handwriting, and his heart raced. The lines and curves of each letter were undoubtedly the ones he had come to love for over sixty years. Sue had always been good writing notes of encouragement to those who were sad. She could feel the hurt in people before he did. Over the years she probably had written hundreds of letters to people she cared for and at times to strangers and people she hardly knew. His hands shook as he held the note.

         My dearest John.

Please forgive me for having left so soon. You are now wearing the suit and hopefully you are not angry over my leaving. But when you get a chance, after today is over and everyone has held your hand and said how sad they are, remember where I am. Remember the times we had together, the good ones. Don’t dwell on the things that are lost, but on the things that remain. Live in them. You know we will see each other again. Remember that each day is a gift. Be sad, but not broken. God will lead you. And remember that I love you, still.

Yours forever,
Sue         

He stuck the note back where he found it, took a deep breath, and walked down the staircase and out the door.