Now and Then

Some time ago I was reading flash fiction on American Zoetrope when I came across a maudlin little piece which purported to explore the feelings of one half of a couple when the other died. I lost my father last year and since then my mother, although putting on a brave face, has been utterly desolate. This piece didn't come near chronicling what she was going through. So, rather meanly, I took it upon myself to write and post what I thought was a more realistic exploration of this situation. It was also a way of reminding myself how she felt, because although I have supported her, every now and then I have found myself being a little impatient with my mother.

When I posted it it met with a generally favourable and sympathetic response, but one reviewer complained that it was a bit bleak and didn't give any hope for the future. He felt that I could have been more upbeat in order to help others who may find themselves in the same situation. Is this what people think is the job of a writer - to produce little pep-talks? Talk about missing the point.

Anyway, it's been a while since I put any fiction on here. (I call it fiction, because although their feelings are similar, this woman is not my mother. The line between truth and fiction is necessarily a blurred one, is it not?)

It's called 'Now and Then'.

"You are cold. You are cold and smooth, suddenly unlined and youthful, just as when I first met you.

I am cold. I am cold and empty and old and bereft because you are gone.

I have children. I have grandchildren. I have friends and I have acquaintances and I go to shops and I see people around. I cannot understand how they don’t see that nothing means anything because you are gone. I cannot understand how I can be here when you are gone. I do not want to be here now you are gone.

Now. I don’t want now.

I want then. I want then, when I first met you, when you looked at me in a different way to the way in which men had looked at me before. I want then, when I sailed for two weeks to another continent, another world to become your bride. I want then, when I held out your child to you, wrapped in a blanket and smelling of baby powder. I want then, when you loved me and made love to me. I want then; oh, how I want then. I want then, when you squeezed my hand as we watched our son’s passing-out parade. I want then, when you spoke at our daughter’s wedding and tears filled your eyes so that you had to clear your throat and pretend they did not. I want then, when you rode with our grandson on the tractor and his childish shrieks made the geese look up from their grain. I want then, when we argued. I want then, when you were sick, so sick, but still here. I want then.

I look for you everywhere and I try to see how you are still here, in your son’s face, in the set of his shoulders as we walk the dog through the fields and he tries to comfort me. I look for you in your daughter’s dogged persistence, in your grandson’s elegant sportsmanship, in your granddaughter’s sentimental tears. You always said that this was how you would live on. I hated to hear it; I hoped I would never have to look for you in others, I hoped you’d always be walking next to me. And part of me prepared for this time. But not well enough.

You are cold, and I am dead inside."