There it was: a little cottage at the edge of three acres of meadow backed up near an endless wood. He hadn’t been there in forever. It had existed around the edges of his consciousness, but he was very good at ignoring those kinds of things.
On a February morning he’d decided to throw together a backpack and see what a free weekend would bring. That he found himself there wasn’t altogether a surprise, though at first it took him back a bit. Without his reasoned and logical permission, his feet had wandered where his soul longed to be.
He gained the entrance easily enough though the dead grasses of winter were still high. The door creaked a bit. Dust mixed with melting snow under his feet, and a tiny pinecone skittered across the floor when the bottom of the door bumped it.
He inhaled deeply as he looked around the room. It smelled musty, but felt like home. The fireplace still held a copper pot, now a greenish hue from oxidation, over the grate. Two chairs held conversation on either side, a small table by each. On one of the tables was an open Bible. He blew the dust from it and sneezed. He peered more closely. John 3:16. Of course. Her love of beauty had always mixed with what was basic and practical. But his love hadn’t been anywhere near what hers had been and she’d left; and without her the cottage seemed to lose its light.
He wandered into the bedroom. Nothing had changed. A heavy quilt of autumn’s colors covered the brass bed. He looked in the closet. Oh! So she had been back! A denim jacket hung alone while a small pair of boots rested on the floor underneath. He hurried over to the dresser drawers. Their emptiness pricked him.
His stomach growled and he went to the kitchen. Pots, pans, plates – all there. He pulled some jerky out of his backpack, sat at the table, and allowed his memory to meander over time. He thought back, finally allowing himself to acknowledge what he missed and his own selfish part in losing the best part of his life.
They’d met in high school, dreamed their dreams, married and planned. She’d done her utmost to make their life together full and beautiful. She had a way of making the ordinary delightful. No one could coax laughter from him like she could. He missed the stories she told from the day’s ordeals and discoveries. He missed the scent of her hair, her touch, her barely perceptible intake of breath when she was startled, the soft sound of her voice. He missed their promises to each other. One, a crazy one actually, was that if for some inexplicable reason they were parted, they would move heaven and earth to find each other on Valentine’s Day. At the time he hadn’t given much thought to any of it.
He hadn’t noticed when, but pretty soon she’d stopped; stopped the stories, the beauty, the laughter. And one day when he’d returned from some seemingly important adventure, she wasn’t there. He’d waited. Days. Weeks. He’d straightened things he habitually left strewn around. He’d chopped more wood and done some tasks she’d given up asking him to do. He’d even prayed a little, certain it wouldn’t make a difference. After another month, he left, too. He went to the city and learned the gratification of money and importance.
Sitting alone in the forgotten cottage holding memories he’d pushed away, at last he admitted to himself the pointlessness of it all. And, for the first time in years, tears flowed. He held his head in his hands and bawled like a baby. For the first time, he acknowledged all the precious things. And they were more unseen than seen. Described with words, but untouchable. Loved and treasured, but not stored. Suddenly his weeping stopped. A sound. Familiar. Missed.
Her barely perceptible intake of breath.
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write about it. Or even preach about it. The fancy word for this is rhetoric. When people disagree with someone, they might even be dismissive of them by saying something like It’s just rhetoric, with the intention of insinuating that their words are just speech without substance.