What he missed in the end were the little things. He missed
the soft echo of her white slippers on the black-and-white
tiled floor, and the way she stood at the kitchen window in
the early morning light. He remembers how her white lace
kerchief seemed to turn yellow as the sunlight streamed
through the colored glass.
He missed the way her eyes would crinkle when she laughed,
and how she would push her glasses onto her forehead when she
was stuck on a word in the crossword puzzle. He missed the
way she would always rush up hills as he strolled behind her.
She always said if you want to make it up you have to run. He
remembers now that he always thought that he would go first.
It didn't seem possible that he would be left behind.
And through the endless nights, he found himself remembering
odd pieces of their life. Sometimes there was no order to the
memories, like a film strip that stopped and started without
warning. There she was holding their first baby on a bench in
the Bronx. She was staring straight into the camera despite
the glare of the sun, and her half smile was both shy and
radiant.
And there she is by the white, picket fence, holding a
toddler's hand and picking a pale, pink rose. You can't see
her face in that memory, but you can see the outline of her
hand against the flower and the slight arching of her neck as
she looks down at her child.
And there they are on their fifteenth anniversary in the deli
on the corner. She orders a celery soda and a hot pastrami
sandwich. He orders a roast beef on rye. They sit in
companionable silence punctuated by bits of conversation
about their home. Should they buy a new couch? Is he also
worried about Moshe? She pushes a small, blue box across the
wooden table. He opens it to find a soft, leather wallet, and
he holds it with a shadow of guilt falling across his face.
He has forgotten to buy her a present. She takes a sip of her
celery soda, and looks up at him with forgiving eyes.
The next memory races across the years as they stand at their
oldest daughter's chuppah. Her dress is a golden
yellow, the color of daffodils. There are traces of wrinkles
across her cheeks, but she looks so young that he wonders if
the memory is true after all. Were they that young at Shuli's
wedding? Under the white tallis that ripples in the
wind they look at each other, and for a moment, their eyes
lock in bewilderment. Wasn't it just yesterday that they
stood beneath their own chuppah? It couldn't have been
that long ago that he stared through the glass at the
hospital nursery looking at Shuli's impossibly perfect face.
Where did the years go?
And then a bitter memory arises. She is growing weaker by the
day. He is losing her, and he is angry. The rage fills him
with confusion. Why is he angry? He begins to find it hard to
look her in the eye. He feels like she is abandoning him.
Soon the house will be filled with empty spaces. He never
imagined that emptiness could speak with such an
overpoweringly powerful voice. The space yawns wider between
them. She never speaks of her illness, never mentions death.
Until her last day, she pretends that she isn't saying good-
bye.
In the end, he regrets the little things. He regrets the time
that he spent arguing with her over a light fixture. It is
too expensive, he had said so long ago in a nameless,
formless store that teeters on the edge of his memory. Why
didn't he just buy the light fixture? He used to be proud of
his stubborn streak, but now it all seems so silly to him.
There were so many pointless arguments that led them
nowhere.
Has she forgiven him where she is now? In the end, he regrets
the smiles he didn't use. He notices that his voice is softer
now, more patient. He regrets that he couldn't find that
softness when he was a young husband and father. Then he had
needed it desperately. Now he finds that he is silent anyway.
He regrets the hours that he stayed later at work. He regrets
the gold locket that he said he would fix. It sits upon their
dresser, and its useless brokenness accuses him. He didn't
know that in the end they would run out of time. He didn't
know that a day would come when he wouldn't have a second
chance.
In the end, he held onto the little things. He clung to his
familiar routines as he walked slowly through the grocery
store picking the same items that they had been using for
years. He clung to tattered notes and worn out hats. He clung
to sleep so that he could see her in his dreams.
In the end, he hears echoes of ordinary sounds. The clinking
of glasses. The far-off cry of a waking baby. The ringing of
the telephone. The soft click of a light going out. The eerie
howl of a dying wind. The slam of a door. And the far- off
whistle of a departing train.
In the end, he will also leave. She is waiting for him.
