He did not want to look, did not want to give in again, but he went to the bookcase and removed the heavy volume, cloth-bound and printed in three colors on heavy, archival stock. Page fifty-six, he knows, sixth row, fourth column. But he lingered, turning each page in slow procession, one by one. He admired the shots of the football field and the chemistry lab, the home ec. class and the school choir.
He realized then--it was the first time he had ever, in his adult life, contemplated it--that the refusal to acknowledge death was no more out-of-line than the refusal to acknowledge sickness; they were all, all nine months’ worth of denials, points along the same continuum. When death came, it did not mark the end of that continuum, which struggled on in each person’s mind for as long as they could bear it. But even now, he can no more remember the point at which he gave up hope than he can remember what was said when the healer left, unsuccessful.
Here is the picture, no longer avoidable. His fingertip brushed the glossy printed page and spanned the entirety of an image whose every overset-printed dot he knew.
The newspaper carried the news that today was the day Miss--he ran back to the kitchen table, picked up the paper and carried it and the yearbook into the living room. He held them side-by-side:
Carrie Parker and Daniel
Born December 30, 1969, in Newport News
--at the First Lutheran
--President, Earth Club (1,2), Varsity Soccer (2)
--followed by a celebration at Burnes Banquet Center
--Swimming (4), Chess Club (1,2,3,4)
--daughter of Dr. and Mrs. Michael Parker
--Class President (3). Intended Vocation:
--is a graduate of
--and sings the tune, without the words / And never stops at all
--this Thursday at 3:00 P.M.
He took a pen from the jar on his desk and paused, the tip hovering over the page. What can be said now, after all this time? He wrote simply, all he ever wanted to say.
“I love you.”
He did not sign it, but merely inscribed, then underlined, his legend above the box containing her face. He went to the window and opened it, frightening the birds from their perches, to sail out over the water. He looked below, and pitched the book into the air. It fluttered, its pages splayed open to the water as it tumbled, and he had already withdrawn his head inside too soon to see it fall. Through the window he could hear the bells down the street, the church tolling three times slowly. He closed the window and sat back down to the cooling cup of coffee.
Afterword
Hi! I hope you liked This Is Not the End. In fact, I’m ecstatic over your reading it! The fact that someone will (or in your case, has) taken the time to give me a listen and a chance to tell them a story is, to me, absolutely thrilling. This book is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-Share-Alike license, so feel free to pass it around, copy it, remix it, have fun with it. Just let your audience (friends, readers, whatever) know where it came from! Of course, if you do enjoy it, or end up doing anything with it, I’d love to hear about it--email me at
[email protected]. And if you really, really like it, you can always throw a buck my way and buy the electronic copy up at Amazon (let me break even on all the coffee it took to write this). But anyway--I loved writing this, and, as the title says, this is not the end--I’ve got more ideas buzzing in my head than ever before, so keep an eye out and keep reading!
--Shelby
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