Shelly Rising
Can he let go
His white sneakers are black with dark earth. Shelly is heavy in his arms. Stiff. Her skin is tight and pulled taut, giving her a grotesque smile, so unlike the goofy grin, she used to wear. Her hair dangles as lank and lifeless as her body. He lays her down in the clearing.
The aspen leaves quiver in the evening breeze. Their shadows claw at the ground. In their branches, he suspends lanterns filled with lavender candles. Their wax is new and untouched.
The air is thick with the aromas of musky marigold and heady lilac as he spreads orange, red, and purple petals around her head and arranges a bouquet in her hands. Her nails are too long, sharp, and jagged.
He tucks lily of the valley under her back and legs, their dainty bells as dirty as she is. On her pallid lips, he poses a single burgundy rose, a symbol of his undying love. He lights the wicks.
Sitting at her crown, he places one of his hands over each of her eyes. He says the words without knowing their meaning, each one vibrating across his tongue. Her cold skin grows warm, then hot. His tears turn to steam on her cheeks.
His palms are burning, and he wants to pull away, but he keeps them in place. Veins protrude from his forearms.
The rose falls from her mouth with a gasp, and her jaw hangs open in a shriek. Her fingers convulse. Her muscles spasm. The ground beneath them shivers, and decaying plant matter flits from place to place.
With hope blooming in his chest, he sees Shelly in her summer dress, the skirt billowing like the waves. Her legs are crusted with sand, and her hair is wet and tangled. She’s laughing.
Now, she’s laying in their striped, green hammock with her book, one sandal thrown to the side and one hanging haphazardly from her toes. She turns and looks at him, brown eyes twinkling.
In an echo, she says, “Hi, Gav.”
Finally, she’s in the hospital with an IV in her arm. Machines beep steadily in the background. Her expression is tired. Resigned. He’s weeping into her belly as she strokes his neck. The day outside is too bright.
“Please let me go,” she says, “I’ll be okay.” Then, the memory seeps into reality, and he hears her screaming.
Her voice is guttural, ragged, and full of pain. She wails, “No, Gavin, no! Please let me go!”
He releases her eyelids, and the empty sockets bore into him, pleading. She arches her back and grasps for some obscure thing. He stops chanting.
She stops moving.
He sobs, his face in her shoulder. “Shelly, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to live without you.” The trees stop whispering, and the world holds its breath. Unseen, a hand clasps him, and an ear nuzzles against his beard.
The marigold petals swirl around them, glowing. Each one comes to rest between him and Shelly before disappearing in a burst of gentle green light; everyone a kisses goodbye.
She whispers, “I’m here, Gav.”
When, at last, it’s dark and her presence has left him, he curls up next to what’s left of Shelly. The night is quiet. He knows what he needs to do, but he isn’t ready.
In the early hours of the following day, he returns to her grave. The morning sun brings back the shine in her chestnut tresses. To bring her happiness in the afterlife, he decorates her coffin with delicate blossoms.
Every year thereafter, he arrives with a wreath of marigolds to decorate her headstone. He sits in the grass and tells her about his life, longing for the day they’re reunited. Before he departs, he feels a tender peck on his brow and the faint sensation of her fingers brushing against his.
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Originally published at https://vocal.media.