Till You're Lost to Me

From LuAnn's prompt on Skateboard, which said: Write about a time when someone was deeply hurt by being overlooked on a special day.

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This was the sort of thing that was supposed to bother women. William knew he needed to battle it, to be strong for everyone who depended on him now, but every now and then--and more often these days than before--it became overwhelming. Which was why he's slipped down here to the park for a few minutes, to watch other people go about normal daily lives. It reminded him of a better past, and gave him hope, all at the same time.

Spring was well underway. Color popped up everywhere--tulips, forsythia, and other blooms he kept telling himself he'd learn the name of some day. The birds were back with sweet songs. Children dashed about, eager to be outside, the same as their own children had been after the long, dark and cold winter. Of course back then the swings--heavy ropes with wooden seats--hung from simple, rusting poles that were probably considered health hazards these days. He and Marie had carried their babies in their arms and their toddlers on their shoulders instead of hauling them about in car seat contraptions and strollers. They had all grown up strong, healthy and productive. Raising children seemed such a complicated project these days.

Even so, given the chance to start again new, right here and now, he'd grab it without a second thought.

William's gaze drifted over to the ampitheater, crumbling now and marked with graffiti cover-up paint. The city would tear it down soon. He was surprised they hadn't already. He thought about bringing Marie here, She would enjoy the sunshine and the ducks. But he couldn't. He was too selfish.

How could she forget? It wasn't her fault, but it twisted in his heart like a sharp knife. He should have been prepared. The doctors tried; that was the major mission of the support group, and the children's internet research sat in a stack by his chair where he read in the evenings. All of it was supposed to circumvent this agony of losing her in pieces. And up till now he believed he was prepared. She forgot names, she forgot places, she forgot books she'd read and a million other little things. Yet it seemed her lifelong love of math and numbers had allowed her mind to hold on to dates. She knew the kids' birthdays. She knew the dates her parents had died. Most of all, she knew their wedding day, the day they had stood here, in this park, in that ampitheater and promised to love and cherish each other through the good times and through ghastly times like this.

Not today. William fixed thick Belgian waffles and topped them with blueberry syrup, served them alongside eggs scrambled with cheese, Earl Gray tea, and sausage links--the special breakfast they had shared for forty-six years on this one and only day. He'd even found the bud vase for the traditional yellow tulip and wrapped a little package of honeysuckle soap in white glossy paper, tied with a blue satin ribbon, just like her girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes.

None of it meant anything to her.

For the first time, William knew what it was going to be like living without her.