Alone

This is a fictional piece written as the result of a prompt about loss. 

I ride the bus alone. I used to never be alone. He used to be with me all the time. For 38 years I couldn’t get a moment’s peace. Now here I am riding this bus--alone. Not a single person knows where I am, where I’ve been, or where I am headed. Not a single person will know if I get home late. He used to always know. I’ll be home soon. No one waits for me there, except a half-eaten frozen lasagna that does not sound remotely delicious. Its congealed cheese and sausage hint at nutrition, yet only vaguely resemble food. He always did the cooking. He knew I hated the whole process, from shopping for groceries all the way to sautéing the onions. Now I am forced to do it all, even if it remains half-assed. Perhaps tonight a bottle of wine will push the food down. For 38 years I couldn’t eat alone if I wanted to. A frozen lasagna would have been absolutely out of the question! Now I am headed towards an empty table; towards a dinner I “made” myself and don’t even want. 

We’re nearing my stop; the bus trudging along, loaded with passengers and bikes. I look out the window as the numbers zoom by. I count the streets, waiting for my stop. I notice the homes we pass, longing for the companionship inside. For 38 years noise filled my home; not talking, just noise. Now I hear my heart beat as I am surrounded by silence. It invades every nook and cranny. His clothes and various sundries still strewn about taunt at it. These items tell stories, share memories; memories I am not in the slightest interested in discussing.

A young gal sits across from me on the bus, her whole life ahead of her. Her 38 years waiting. My whole life behind me; my 38 years gone. She too looks out the window. I wonder what it is she sees. Does she also long for the companionship within those sacred walls? Is she headed home to a half-eaten frozen lasagna? Does she know what it is she longs for? I smile at her. She looks away. Two strangers following different paths, on the same bus.

Finally, I exit the bus. I make my way to the front door and turn the key slowly. The neighborhood is quiet. The kids living nearby have gone in for dinner leaving their bikes and basketballs flung about in their yards and driveways. He used to love to listen to their chatter as he watered the lawn, sometimes losing all track of time; said it kept him young long after our kids took lives of their own. 

Walking in I sense the memories crowded into the small space, many more than the space has room for. Furniture now sits quietly, afraid to make a sound for fear of further rejection. I close the door set down my bag, drop pieces of clothing along the way to my bedroom. I skip the dinner and simply crawl into my bed still warm from his body. For 38 years, I shared this bed with a snorer. Now it is empty and quiet and I notice how it creaks and moans with every movement.

Thirty-eight years ago, I decided I didn’t want to be alone. Yet, here I lay. Alone. I close my eyes.