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“Do you still miss him?”
The porch swing rocks underneath her as Martha turns towards the voice. Diana is standing in the doorway, holding a half-full glass of wine. She looks radiant in the late afternoon sunlight, and even though she’s dressed down (relatively speaking) in a fitted black dress that ends at mid-calf, if Martha squints-
(easy enough to do – she’s been meaning to get a new prescription for her glasses, but it just keeps falling by the wayside)
-she can easily imagine how the light would look glinting off Diana’s golden armor, how it would catch on her gauntlets and greaves. Dressed down or not, it’s impossible to forget that the woman beside her has the soul of a warrior.
“Every day,” she answers truthfully, turning her gaze back towards the fields, towards the acres of corn swaying in the light breeze. Even after all this time, if she concentrates, she can picture Jonathan out there, visible only as a glimpse of flannel between two rows of stalks, whistling the whole time, not coming back to the house until it was nearly dark and the back of his neck and cheeks were striped with sunburn.
The ache has faded some, over time. Thinking of him no longer makes her chest feel cavernous, like there’s been a hole carved into her that will never be filled. But not a day has gone by since his death where she didn’t think of him, where something in the house didn’t remind her of what she’d lost.
Shifting over on the swing, she asks, “And you? Do you miss Steve?” She doesn’t know all the details, but Clark has told her enough, enough for her to know she isn’t the only person that lost someone.
Diana nods and settles herself onto the swing as well, rocking them gently back towards the house.
“Yes. Always.” She takes a slow sip of her wine before she continues. “There are so many things I wish I could tell him about. So many things I wish he could see. I…” She pauses, and during the momentary silence, laughter erupts inside the house, Clark’s softer chuckle nearly masked by Barry’s boisterous exclamation of joy, and while part of Martha can’t help but feel like a poor host for leaving her guests for so long, it sounds like they’ve managed to thoroughly amuse themselves. She lets them laugh, and she lets Diana take as much time as she needs to collect herself. Eventually, she speaks again. “Right after it happened, I felt like I’d lost a part of myself. I didn’t think such pain was possible.”
Martha nods. After Jonathan’s death, Clark had been the only reason that she hadn’t gone to bed and stayed there, the only reason she’d carried on, the only reason she’d been able to push through the pain that threatened to consume her whole.
“It never went away for me,” she says, turning her face into the breeze and inhaling the smell of the farm, of fresh turned earth. “Not fully, at least. But eventually, I could breathe again.”
“Yes,” Diana replies, knee gently pressing against Martha’s. “Me too. Once I realized that my grief could coexist with my other emotions. That it didn’t have to be the only thing I felt.”
“Exactly.” It’s far from the cheeriest topic, but Martha can’t help but smile slightly. She’s talked to Clark about it, of course, but as hard as he tried, despite his depths of empathy, the reality is that he simply wasn’t able to understand completely, that their journeys were different. And while she tried group therapy a few times, no one ever vocalized their loss in a way that resonated with her.
But Diana, for all the differences between them, their wide gaps in age and experience, understands.
After all this time, it is nothing less than a relief to feel so seen.
“Thank you,” she says, looking away from the fields and towards Diana. There’s a beam of sunlight striking her brow, illuminating her flawless skin from within, making her look even more golden than before, so bright that it almost feels sacrilegious to look upon her. Somehow, she manages to add, “For asking. It’s nice to talk with someone who understands.”
“Of course.” In the corner of her eye, Martha notices Diana switch her wineglass to her left hand. Seconds later, her right hand gently brushes against the outside of Martha’s thigh, just above the knee. Martha recognizes the offer for what it is, and she takes Diana’s hand, slots her fingers (sore in a way that means rain will be coming soon) in between Diana’s long, slim ones.
She doesn’t remember the last time she did this with someone, since her palm was pressed to another.
She forgot how wonderful it feels.
They stay like that, swathed in companionable silence, gently rocking back and forth on the creaking porch swing, watching the afternoon sun slowly bleed away into twilight. At one point, she dares to rest her head onto Diana’s shoulder. Her dress is soft against Martha’s lined cheek, and even through the fabric, she can feel the strength coursing through Diana’s muscles. When she presses her cheek to the top of Martha’s head, murmuring something in a language Martha doesn’t recognize, she catches the intertwined scent of vanilla and roses, a scent that weaves together with the earthy scent of the farm.
She knows that, even though she would be content to remain here well into the night, she can’t stay for much longer – she still has guests, after all, and she knows that eventually, once he notices that her break for a little air has gone on for too long, Clark is going to come looking for her.
But he hasn’t come yet. She still has time.
And so, for the time being, she stays.