
Three AM. Unable to sleep. The other side of the bed is cold, neat, and tidy. A teardrop falls on the pillow. I set my ring on the nightstand. Infinity of promised tomorrows. Lost.
Heartbroken, I walk out barefoot into the night. Into the reckless abundance of glass-sided skyscrapers, resigned traffic lights, billboards, and marquees flickering in gaudy technicolor. I wander aimlessly on rain-slicked streets shimmering under lamp posts along a tree-lined parkway. The electric rhythm of this city never sleeps. It's been my home since we vowed the vows and walked the walk. We made this our home with promises of forever amity.
A breeze comes in when I notice something different tonight. The shadows. They transcend the usual ostentatious bawling luminescence of the city lights, whispering and crawling in eerie bearings. I swallow and move on, buried in sorrow.
Ahead are strange lights I've never noticed before. Amber glow flickering from windows in a strange little flat-roof house of modest dimensions. They seem to pulse in time with my heartbeat, drawing me like a moth to flame. Countless times I’ve walked here. Never noticed it until now.
Closer, I see it’s a church. A neighborhood church, in a neighborhood house. Plaques and inspirational quotes tacked to its clapboard walls. A wooden white cross planted in a patch of scrawny grass - the kind that pushes through sidewalk cracks and survives on forgotten lots.
Are you crazy? Seeing things?
This shouldn’t be here, imprisoned in this sleek urban blister. It belongs on a quiet street in a small town, where church bells mark the hours. Not here. No, no, not here.
Gospel music drifts out from an open door, sweet, deep and soulful. It carries devotion; it possesses love. It attracts me to feel its message.
At the front steps worn smooth by years of faithful feet entering, I stand mesmerized by its allure. A tiny black woman, gray-headed with a peaceful smile, approaches. Without words, she carefully takes my hand. “Come in, child.”
No apprehension, no fear, I let her lead me in. The eyes of smiling black faces fall on me. I swallow hard. A coffin lay at the head of the room. Crackers, cheese, and a fruit spread close by.
“Welcome child.” Her eyes, warm as her hands, open wide. “I’m Sybil, his wife. How did you know Caruthers?”
I stutter apologetically. “I… I’m sorry for your loss. How long were you together?”
She nods. “Forty-two years we lived in harmony.”
“Beautiful. So nice to hear you had such a loyal relationship for so long.”
“Yes, he was an outstanding father and a loving husband. Lucky to have him.” Without looking up, she pats my hand and kneads my fingers thoughtfully. "Caruthers was not a perfect man. He lived within the shadows of his father's disease. So it came to him honestly."
I frown. Do not ask.
She offers meaning. “Caruthers was a flirt. Apologetically promiscuous. His father’s genes at work. He died in the arms of another woman. His cross to bear.”
I gave her fragile hand a little press. “How did you do it? Stay together for that long, knowing his ways. And still now, in his death, you continue to love him in memory?”
In a wrinkled smile, she leans into me. “He never denied his iniquities. He loved me. I loved him despite his imperfections. Acceptance was the bond that kept us together. Acceptance. He left me as an honest man.” She rubs my hand. “Neither was I perfect.”
“That never bothered you? His philandering.”
“Of course it did. But I knew how he was when I married him. I knew his father. Caruthers couldn’t help what he inherited. There was so much worth in him—good provider, no drugs, didn’t drink. Such a good man to me and the kids despite that indomitable behavior. I knew he wasn’t perfect. But the good in him outweighed the other. I could have searched the world for that perfect man and never found one as good as him in so many ways.” She inches closer. Looks up with tenderness. “Have you found that perfect person for you yet?”
Of course not. No. No one is perfect. I shrink from answering. But it slips out. “No.”
With that warm smile and gentle wisdom, she reaches up and touches my face. “But you accepted that someone anyway? And were you also accepted for who you are?”
I blink. Not sure if the tears blur her away, or if she was never really there. But I feel the weight of my ring on the nightstand just the same.
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