I'd Stop For You

"Life goes on."

The words were written in normal ballpoint pen, the handwriting of their writer cursive and flowy. They were the conclusion to a long, winding paragraph which appeared to be an attempt at philosophical musing out of which she was undoubtedly meant to derive comfort.

She didn't.

She'd come across those words in almost eighty percent of the cards, letters, emails, even telegraphs which had been sent to her over the last few days. She knew their senders meant well, but she didn't really appreciate the phrase. "Life goes on." What is life, anyway, she felt like asking? Isn't it a relative concept? Is there really a big, entangled, messy mash that contains us all? No. Time may go on, but "life" is different for everyone.

She looked at those same words again, her pen poised. She wondered if the person who wrote them--her mother's aunt, in this case--knew how much they hurt her. It wasn't just their bluntness--she felt like they were telling her, "Hey, we know you're hurting, but, guess what, time won't stop for you, so you better forget your pain and catch up with the rest of us!"--but the fact that they reminded her continuously of the magnitude of what she had lost.

His words echoed in her mind as she read every condolence note. He'd said them just once, but they'd been engraved in her mind. It was the closest he'd ever gotten to being romantic--he wasn't prone to what he called "mushy crap", and neither was she--but those words held far more meaning and truth in them than anything she'd ever been told in her life.

It had been the week after they'd gotten engaged. He'd said something stupid, and she'd wondered jokingly why she'd ever agreed to marry him. He looked at her, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes. At first she'd been confused, wondering if maybe the words had hurt him, although they joked like that all the time. Then he spoke.

"Because I'd stop for you. If you ever fell, I'd stop for you. I'd try to catch you, of course, but if I couldn't, then I'd kneel down beside you and cry with you, yell with you, go on a wild rampage with you--whatever it took, till you felt better. Then I'd help you up, be your crutch, maybe, and walk with you. I'd walk with you till you could walk on your own. And if you ever fell once more, I'd stop for you and do it all over again."

They'd laughed, even though they both knew he meant it. He never brought it up again, but she'd kept the words firmly in her mind, locked inside a cell of their own, her comfort in case anything went wrong. Little did she suspect that what would go wrong would be an accident of such magnitude, the type of event that stretches a person and tears them apart, limb from limb.

She found it ironic that the only person who could help her, the only person who could bring her relief, was the one person who was gone. She thought of those words every day from the moment she woke up to the moment she went to bed. She thought of them as she put the kettle on to boil, she thought of them as she ate, she thought of them as she read and reread every single one of his emails and texts, she thought of them as she thanked people for their kindness and assured them that she'd be all right, and she thought of them as she prayed. Still, it wasn't enough. There was always this nagging feeling that something was missing; his reassuring voice. She could hear it in her mind's ear, but it wasn't the same. She needed it to flow through the air, to cause waves of sound that would ultimately reach her and make her feel like things would be okay.

"Life goes on." She realised that she was still holding the pen, still staring blankly at the piece of paper, which was now moist with her tears. What was she supposed to say? She'd devised a standard answer, but she was sick of it. It was hypocritical. She needed truth. She needed honesty. She needed realism. She needed someone to acknowledge that no, her life would not go on. Right now, her life was in a rut and it would stay that way for a while. She didn't want to move on. Maybe she'd feel differently in the future, but for the time being, all she wanted was to stay right where she was. Because what was moving on, really? A dilution of the pain? Putting your hurt on the back burner instead of at the forefront of your thoughts? Whatever it was, she wasn't up for it. Not now.

She put down her pen and clawed her way through the unkempt room to her bed. She'd managed to take one of his sweatshirts when she and her parents had visited his widowed mother in the house she used to share with her son. It didn't have his smell--it emanated an aura of fresh laundry--but in the middle was the logo of his favourite band. It wasn't much, but it made her feel like she had a tangible part of him with her. She never wore it, but hugged it tightly whenever she went to bed, as if she could squeeze the comfort out of its fibres and allow it to seep into her soul. As she held it now, she felt her heart skip a beat, and muttered, so quietly her voice was almost inaudible, "I'd stop for you too."