Vicesimus Quintus Gradus
The wind was to their backs, gently wafting aside their gray hairs and loose-fitting T-shirts. Their hands, his left and her right, were clasped together, their fingers intertwined like strong vines on a chain link fence. Despite their ever-frailer muscles, aching bones, and thin skin, their grip was sturdy, painless. Their arms a bridge between their souls.
The evening sun was being strangled out by the woody horizon, giving the appearance that it was being dragged by thousands of branches into an earthen grave. And it was beautiful.
“Do you remember our wedding night?” A tired, hoarse voice sang sweeter than a morning songbird.
“Not very well, dear. It was so so long ago,” his wife replied.
“I only remember our vows,” he thought for a moment, squinting as the sun released its final, colorful light. “And how beautiful you looked,” he added.
“‘Not more or less beautiful than ever before,’ you told me,” she responded. “I remember that. You thought I looked just like usual, you old villain!”
“I lied, Mags, I lied,” he smiled to himself as much as to her, tilting his head down. “When you came around the corner, time stopped for a moment, and in that moment I felt myself melt down like an ice cube in the Texas sun. You were so—hot.”
“Ah, ever the charmer. And a liar after all these years. Such betrayal…I’m filing for divorce.” Mags squeezed his hand a little, and she smiled too. He chuckled as the dusk’s breeze washed over them.
That night, they dreamed.
They dreamed their own dreams, of course. In their age, or rather, knowing what soon awaited them, their dreams had adopted a unique character. They were less-so dreams and more-so memories. Their respective minds rewound their lives and pressed play at random points, authoring their respective narratives for an audience of one; their own respective souls. The writer—each mind, that is—would often explore someone else’s perspective of a given memory. Sometimes the mind would pretend to be omnipotent, or it would be a ghost observing, or it would replicate a friend’s thoughts and emotions. Most often, though, the perspective—when not their own—would be that of their spouse. Mags knew Craig better than anyone would ever, and Craig knew Mags better than anyone would ever, and they were adept at exercising this intimacy. Sometimes they’d recall their dreams in the mornings, and Craig would be shocked at the depth of Mags’ insight, or vice versa. So they dreamed their own dreams, but they dreamed together as they slept.
Tonight Craig dreamt of sorrow.
He dreamt of a doctor’s office, his mind full of the phantom scent of sanitizer, cleaner, and rubber that stuck stubbornly to those pale blue and white walls. He dreamt of his pale, sickly wife laying on the patient’s cot, and he sitting on that stiff mattress, fearing he already knew what was to come.
Or at least, that’s what Mags had imagined his expression to mean. For in the dream, he was Mags. And while Craig seemed to be haunted in that room by a cold, brewing dread, Mags was broiling over with red hot pain, her insides seared themselves, his skin was covered in molten wax, and worst of all her head was stuck full of needles. But Craig didn’t notice, for she was simply pale, and sweating, and laying peaceably on the God-forsaken cot.
She dragged her eyes reluctantly to the movement in the corner. The doctor had entered the room. And he held a clipboard, and his eyes were so, so blue. Beautiful blue eyes, that doctor’s were. And smart, so bright. For an instant, they gave her a dash of hope, like a drop of water thrown into the flaming abyss of her emotions. But like water does, it evaporated in the flame before it reached the bottom, before the doctor’s lips parted.
And when they did, she wanted nothing more than to tear them off, burn them, stomp on them, and scratch and beat the face from which they came.
But she felt this for only a moment, and then she felt wetness under her eyelids, and the flames stoked themselves up and licked at the damned baby blue walls of the office, and she sat up at once and wailed, and the tears flowed and flowed as she buried her head deeper into Craig’s shoulder. And he wrapped her head with his arms, and when his chest began to lurch and his nose began to sniffle, she realized she was yet not alone. Together they wept.
“Dad? Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Yes, quite alright, dear, quite alright indeed,” Craig assured his daughter.
“Good. Well, good. Hey—”
The past couple of weeks, Craig had been quite productive. He started with cleaning the house and organizing the family photos—thousands of photos, sorted with precision. He collected up Mags’ writings and organized them in the same way as the photos; carefully and patiently. His own trinkets he packaged up, too. Models and figures varying in size from the microscopic to the vast. He’d learned a number of new recipes and shared dishes with his neighbors. They agreed to come try more over a game of Bingo in a few days, and he wasn’t shy about emptying out their wallets. Farewell, farewell! I’ll see you on Sunday, eh? To confess about the gambling?
“—Hey, it’s just that I’m worried about you.” She took his hand in her own. “These past couple of weeks, you’ve been too happy.”
What a strange thing to say. Too happy. Still, he didn’t interrupt.
“I don’t think that’s normal, or healthy. Aren’t you a bit sad?” She had her mother’s eyes, and now they begged his to speak to her. “Have you cried at all? Crying is good for you, Dad.” She continued on like this for some time, and he let her.
Finally, she asked, “tell me, why aren’t you at all upset?”
“I was, for a moment. But it won’t be long, my dear. It won’t be long until I see her again. We promised each other, ‘death shall not do us part.’ I’m on my way back to her, and for that I can not be upset.”
Parva Gradus 