Streams of Comfort

The last time he had seen that shade of auburn hair, it was raining. In Central Park.
He looked the same too. Several years later felt more like an instant. Now, it was like he was expecting the rain drops again. Something to help with the terrible sense of déjà vu he felt.
The woman with the auburn hair used to be everything to him. The one who would hear his sad tales after work with a knowing smile because she knew he couldn’t be sad for too long in her presence. The one who’s laughter could dig him out of any hole, no matter the depth. Her laughter had that power. It was a lifeline he always thought he’d have access to.
He was wrong.
His traitorous mind started remembering other things. The color of her coat. Dark brown, almost black as it reached her ankles. In her hands, a suitcase. A valise, as she liked to call it. Clutched so tightly he thought that was her lifeline.
Maybe he was right.
The extraordinary part of this story was that he could not beg her to come back. He could not yell or scream. Only in his head. No amount of sign language was enough to make her turn around. While he still could see the storm cloud grey of her eyes, he signed desperately, “I love you. Don’t go”. He did it again. And again. And again. Until his hands ached. Until he couldn’t see her eyes anymore. Until he could only fall to his knees in utter desolation. He felt water everywhere and nowhere. He felt half himself was still in this world and the other was in that valise.
“Or perhaps”, he thought sorely, “she would take a piece of him with her, like a curse.” How could one feel better holding such power? One can never forget a son.
He held that power though. She could walk away a million times and those words would never stop being true. The man wondered, looking at her auburn hair that was frozen in time, if she knew that. If it ever haunted her, like she did him.
She was in his favorite coffee shop. Recent favorite, he supposed. Since he no longer loved things any longer than a few months. People, even less than that. She could not have guessed he would be here. No matter how much the smell of coffee beans always drew him in like ambrosia. It’s a big city. One can always get lost and never be found. Or at least he thought he could until today.
He looked around, casually, praying she wouldn’t spot him. He was an average looking man. One whose face would never be picked out in a crowd. Except by the one person who would know him in any crowd. Somehow those stormy eyes found him. She was looking too.
That’s when he looked. Really looked. The auburn hair had streaks of grey. The same shade as her eyes that had little wrinkles around them. She seemed to slouch more than he remembered. Then he saw her cane. A thin stick barely noticeable in all the bustle of the coffee shop.
He supposed he never expected to see her again, but if he did, she would be immortal. Frozen in time. Still looking at him with the storms in her eyes and the valise clinging to her strong hands. Now she stands before him, older, with raindrops in her eyes.

Alice R, 4/4/24

This is part 1 of a 2-part story that I wrote for this month. Power is a tough concept to tackle with few words (as is my usual medium). In our lives, it plays a variety of roles, and we tend to put a lot at stake for the sake of having power or controlling who does. I hope this story finds you well this month. Perhaps you can relate to one or both characters in some ways. Power is tricky like that, but we know who has the ultimate power. The King of kings and Lord of lords. Amen.