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I was totally wasted; stoned on prescription meds. I sat on Martin’s surfboard on the floor of our apartment humming an out of tune rendition of “Losing My Religion” to myself; staring at nothing in particular. I was vegetating. My stomach rumbled, but I didn’t have enough energy or will, for that matter, to actually make something to eat.
A tendril of hair fell across my eyes, and I had to focus, really hard, to tuck it back into place. It felt like I’d struggled for hours, and I sighed with relief when I achieved my aim. My hand slid over my scalp and through my brain-fog, I realized that my hair was filthy. It jolted me, shock rippled, forcing me to take cognizance of my surroundings. Oh boy…the bedsit was a tiny vortex of chaos. Dirty clothes strewn about, Martin’s books piled in a top heavy column (threatening to overflow on the spot), bowls caked with dried cornflake remnants lying about. Disgusting filth.
But, it was my hair that did it…
Martin had loved my hair. He’d loved me perfectly, I knew I would be ruined for any other man, for any other relationship. I’d never be whole. But, my hair...Martin wouldn’t have wanted me to sit around in filth, he would’ve hated to see me stoned (he’d always said that drugs of any kind were an unnecessary crutch).
His ghost washed over me, tingling my senses back into reality. Wakefulness…
I stood up, unsteadily and made my way to the shower. I had to be clean, clean for Martin, but also clean for myself.
He’d left me a surfboard and bookcase full of his precious books. That was the physical inheritance, gained from our short marriage. They were scant reminders for the person that he was. But, then I realized that the true inheritance he’d bequeathed was a measure of his spirit, which, now, was sending me under a spray of water and back into life.
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