With Sylvia gone,
whose eyes to compare
with the morning sun?
After Jill left, I threw a pillow and comforter on the couch and figured I’d crash there for the night—I mean, it worked the night before, and it was close to the fire.
When you’re muddling through a power outage it’s any port in a storm, and I suppose that’s what Dover was to me too.
And if that was true, then what was Jill—a soft place to land?
The guilt was overwhelming. I wanted her, but didn’t want her replacing Sylvia.
I didn’t want to erase Sylvia's face from my memory.
For all I cared she could always haunt me, and hurt me with her absence and be the hole in me that showed part of me was gone.
I could almost picture Sylvia in the darkness, rolling her eyes and saying, “Such drama—I can almost believe you miss me, but if you really do, why did you let me go?”
And, of course, I have no answer for such questions.
If I didn’t let her go, she wouldn’t have died in the surf—and I wouldn’t be lying here turning over her memory like a warm stone in my hand.
I can almost hear the sarcasm in her voice. “You’re such a poseur, thinking you miss me—tsk, tsk.”
I want to argue with her phantasm, but that’d be akin to chasing the tail of my own mind.
The way I see it, when someone close to you dies, you have a choice—you either crawl into the coffin with them, or carry on and try to find a way to live without them.
I chose the latter, along with the pain. And I don’t think it’ll ever go away.
Being here at Port Dover, in this cottage that Sylvia loved, is a way of being close to her, without joining her in the great beyond.
If I could hold a séance and raise her spirit, I’d do it in a heartbeat—simply to hear her voice and hold her once more in my arms.
But that’ll never happen.
She’s gone.
I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, trying to exorcise her image. It was no use—it never was.
I gave up and stared at the fire
The ruddy flames threw shadows upon the wall. They reminded me of Plato’s story of the cave. Of course, in his allegory the prisoners were tied down—but in a way, so was I.
I pictured the captives mistaking shadows for real things, the way people see shapes in clouds—imagining demigods with animal bodies and human faces.
While thinking that, I stole a glance down at the kitten I named after Sylvia and stifled a laugh.
I wasn’t prone to any sentiments that could be called religious—wasn’t a mystic or in any way fetishistic.
But I knew at that moment I’d gladly embrace a shadow, if it had Sylvia’s face.
An hour later, and I was still lying on the couch, staring into the ruby-black hell.
My mind just wouldn’t shut down and my thoughts were racing.
I got up, poured a glass of water, and stared out the window at the lake.
The chalky land glowed like radium—a forlorn moonscape—and the blue wind had returned.
It moaned plaintively and sorrowfully through the trees and dry reeds, and broken places of neglect inside me.
Staying up and entertaining morose thoughts wasn’t healthy, and I couldn't go online to occupy myself.
I had to conserve the power on my laptop and cell phone, since I didn’t know when the power would come back on.
So, more or less out of necessity, I returned to the couch and after some tossing and turning, fell into a fitful sleep.
And then it happened...
I turned over and Sylvia was beside me—sitting on the floor, staring back at me sadly.
I tried to speak, but she placed her fingers on my lips and shushed me.
I buried my face in her hair and inhaled the familiar fragrance of snowflakes and wind—that was Sylvia, even in the middle of summer—her skin and hair fresh with the scent of the outdoors.
“I missed you so much,” I moaned, and held her, desperately clinging to the wreckage of our washed-up dreams.
The surf was pounding in my ears and the waves were pulling me under.
I woke up gasping for air and stared into the eyes of the kitten clinging to my chest.
The experience shook me. I was still trembling a half hour later, sitting by the fire with the comforter wrapped around me, sipping hot coffee and hearing the blue wind’s monody.
I could still hear shallow breathing and feel the warmth of her lips. It was as real as the wail of the wind or the soft flutter of the fireplace flames.
And even as I sat there doubting my own senses, I heard the velvety sound of her whisper, “Come back to bed, Neil.”
The power was restored by early morning and the kitten was gone. I let her out briefly, and when I came back to let her in she was nowhere to be found.
And strangely, there were no paw prints in the fresh snow.
The plow had been through overnight, and the roads were open.
So, I packed my gear in the car and was gone by mid-morning.
Looking back on my Port Dover experience, I’m plagued with uncertainty.
Somehow I’ve separated myself from that profound grief, and have even considered on-line dating.
Marnie occasionally alludes to Jill as if trailing a lure across my path—but despite being bright and shiny, it reminds me of the depths of my despair—and for that, there’s no turning back.
I’m beginning to write again, which makes Tom Eaton, my publisher, happy.
His wife, Cat, has even suggested a cottage on Florida’s Gulf side as a writer’s getaway, but I think I’ll pass on lonely beaches and Gulf breezes.
To be determined...
Besides, who knows where I might end up eventually—perhaps, somewhere on the other side of grief where there just might be a beach waiting for me.
