That was twelve years ago. Twelve years of shared toothbrushes and silent arguments about the thermostat. Twelve years of her singing off-key while chopping onions, of me leaving coffee mugs on the windowsill until they grew a small forest of mold. We built a whole vocabulary of silence: the tightness in her jaw meaning I’m fine when she wasn’t, the way I’d tap my wedding ring against a glass meaning I’m sorry before I could say the words.
The wind shifts. A branch from the oak tree scrapes the roof like a fingernail down a chalkboard. I take a step off the porch. The gravel bites into my feet. I don’t care. tabitha stay with me
“That’s the problem.” She shakes her head, a small, tired movement. “You’re always here now. But ‘now’ is always too late.” That was twelve years ago
Tabitha, stay with me.
I remember the first time I said it. We were twenty-two, in a studio apartment that smelled of burnt toast and her lavender shampoo. She had a fever of 102 and kept trying to walk to the bus stop for a shift she didn’t need to work. I wrapped a quilt around her shoulders and said, Tabitha, stay with me. She laughed, coughed, and leaned her head against my chest. Always, she whispered. Where else would I go? We built a whole vocabulary of silence: the
Now the silence is different. It’s the sound of rain hitting her shoulders. The sound of her not turning around.