Anniversary

Fi.
An original written by Alexandra.

In The Springtime (1896)
James Jebusa

There are no balloons this year. There have
not been for decades. There is no spectacular dinner,
there are no flowers, not even a tatty little card.
No inkling of celebration is apparent, in fact,
to the contrary – it is as if someone has died.
We are at the wake.

I wonder if it ever crosses your mind, even for an
instant, of how it once was. As you stab and poke at
the dinner I have made, gobble it up, only for it to
be followed by a dramatic swallow and then an even
larger piece of the well-done steak, do you remember
when this table was once surrounded by our children?
Where they would recount their days, what they learned at
school, what their friends had invited them to?
Where we witnessed them grow and mature before our very eyes?

As you chew away, I look to my left, perhaps out
of habit, to the frame that sits quietly on the mantelpiece
above the fireplace. It is one of the first (and last)
photographs of just we two. It has not moved, even
an inch, in decades. There are coats and coats of dust that
layer it. The two figures underneath have not been able
to breathe in years. The image itself is so blurry. The faces
are now unidentifiable. Is it even us underneath there
anymore? We do not dare wipe it away. Why not? Do we
not want to disturb the shrine? Disturb the dead? Do
we not want to be reminded of what was?

I look back to you. We sit in the same place
at the dining table as we always have. Opposite, apart,
distant, absent. My God, we are frozen. Utterly stone
cold. With no one around but us anymore, we still do
not consider moving closer to each other. Do you dare
move one seat down towards me?

Not too long from now, we will pass. All the energy
this house stores from the years of elation, tragedy,
resentment, realisations and inconceivable heartache
will eventually dissipate into absolute insignificance. Into
nothing more than the mere dust particles that sit
on our photograph. All the said and unsaid words to each
other may continue to whisper throughout the halls
and cracks and damp spots which you promised to get
fixed, but they will eventually fall silent.
There comes a time when there is truly nothing left to say.

There is nothing left to say to you and you me.
It occurred much earlier in our lives than I care
to admit.

No wonder we have not felt compelled to
write each other cards for a long time. They would be
blank. Blank like the stare you give me when I ask you
a question. What pains me the most is remembering
how your face used to look when I did ask something.
So eager and engaged, as if you were afraid it would
be the last question I would ever ask you.

Perhaps we did not forget, but rather, we
do not want to remember. Remember who we once were,
the life we were ecstatic to lead together, the
fire we felt for one another. Remember that we chose
one another. I chose you and you chose me. And what has
it amounted to? An endless string of silent dinners, quiet
reminiscing, and long nights of suppressing insurmountable
regret.

At least I have that photograph that sits as an
anchor to this house. It is so central and unwavering
in its position. Again, the image is now so dusty
that the faces and scene it has captured are so
indistinguishable. Maybe that is better. I can now
conjure a better story to that photograph in my head.
One that goes beyond the parameters of a tiny
rectangular frame.

I can tell that you love me, or you have loved me.
But equally, I can tell you no longer like me. While
our arm chairs touch, our own have not in years.
While I can hear the ever so gentle releases of air
through your nose as you breathe, I have never felt
more distant. As you snap at me for unconsciously
tapping on the cover of my book as I read at night
before bed, I know you have not heard me for a long time.

But I circle back to the same conclusion: you are
all that I have, so I befriend the distance. At
least I can have that for company. And I so desperately
crave company.

Happy anniversary, my dearest. You are all that I have,
all that I was, all that I could be, all that I am.

Couple in the Drawing Room (1890)
Carlo Stratta