Chapter Text
Bridget dropped to her knees on the soft carpet, surrounded by a multitude of boxes, a solitary glass of red wine perched on the dark wood table beside her. She was attempting to go through Mark’s belongings for the third time. Her two young children were upstairs, having been put to bed over an hour ago. Sometimes it felt she wouldn’t have the strength to go on if not for them; a living, breathing part of her late husband.
If she were honest, it was more like the fourth or fifth time she’d started this project. A month on from Mark’s death the bulk of his possessions remained where they’d been left, a few haphazardly placed in various piles or partially filled cardboard cartons. She was overwhelmed by the depth of sadness each item stirred when picking it up for sorting. But none more so than his spare set of thick-framed black eyewear.
She picked them up from the bottom of the box, safely protected in their worn leather case where they’d settled the day prior. Before this, they had been sitting on the kitchen counter since he had left, as if they may be needed at any moment. She thought of the glasses he would have had on when the landmine exploded, destroying the armoured vehicle he was riding in. Or had he been wearing sunglasses to protect his eyes from the blinding desert glare? Bridget shook her head, a single tear sliding down her cheek. How could she cry again after all the crying she’d already done?
The problem was that she was still in love with Mark and always would be, even though she would never see him again, even though he was gone forever. She was still in love and didn’t know what to do about it. She felt it leaking out of her like pieces of cotton stuffing from an old throw pillow, leaving an untidy mess for everyone to see.
Opening the case, she placed the glasses on her face, breathing deeply as she drank in large gulps of air, on the verge of falling apart yet again. If only she could simply box up her love like so many physical items bound for a rummage sale.
Take them off and donate them. Put them back in the box. Do it. But even as these thoughts crossed her mind, she knew it was an impossible task. They weren’t Mark, of course, but only a physical thing he had touched and used daily. They weren’t actually him but a reminder of the man she would love forever. Still, donating them would be an act of betrayal, as if she had physically cheated.
Rather than that, she curled up on the floor like a small child and wept. Loudly.
Just over a month had gone by, which under normal circumstances would have passed in the blink of an eye, but the last 30 days had crawled by agonisingly slow. As if time had completely stopped, stuck in neutral no matter how much effort she put into moving forward. She was in their house alone, slightly pissed on wine, with a tiny boy and infant girl that now depended solely on her. Her husband’s glasses pressed uncomfortably into her face on the cold tile floor where her head rested.
A beautiful thing was now dead. Her marriage had come to an abrupt end. Not through divorce, infidelity, or lack of passion. All that remained of him were the things he had touched, the law books he kept in his office, the bespoke suits he had worn so fastidiously. She could still feel his presence in the house, still taste his skin on her lips, making it impossible to discard any of the items. As if doing so, even contemplating it, would mean losing him all over again. She longed to stay inside the house, never leave its protective walls. Keep their two children suspended in time, never to grow older or move further away from knowing their father.
She understood and appreciated her friends’ concern for her state of mind. She acknowledged she should let Mark go. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Maybe it could be accomplished after six months or a year. But not yet. She was in love with the only thing she had left: his memory. And she couldn’t bear to lose it; she wasn’t sure she would ever be ready to. Every time she looked at Billy and Mabel, she saw him; his eyes, his expressions, his complete joy at being a father.