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The wind blows steadily from the south, forcing the rain to pelt against the frozen ground with more bitterness and bit then the usual winter rain. She is walking. Her posture implies nothing unordinary. From under her coat flows licorice colored curls that bounce when she walks. Her moss woven eyes are downward, distracted, and beautiful. Her body is lean and sways with the grace of a dancer. She is a wonderful majestic creature and if it weren’t for the solitary atmosphere of the country she may have caught the eyes of many passer bys’.
If she had been walking this path in the summer, her purpose may have not seemed so contemptuously cruel. The rain continues to fall. She lifts her eyes and in the distance the destination is on the horizon. She is surrounded now, by the barren branches of a frozen forest. As she walks they seem to sway begging her to stop, “go back the other way,” but she is frozen the same way they are. The soul behind those empty moss woven eyes knows nothing more of summer…they cannot recall the spring. The tall yellow decayed grass sways along the path and in the distance the eerie caw of a crow.
The path shortens as the distance to her destination draws near. The air is laden with moisture. She is not far now from the banks she has so desperately been waiting for. She can smell the murky waters of the pond. She knows this spot well. She has come here many times to take in the beauty of it; the sounds and smells of life that thrives in nature.
She reaches the shore. The rain falls and the wind blows. The surface of the pond is troubled. Riddled with circlets from where the rain drops fall and pushed around by the wind. Nothing is clear. She walks through the muddy earth to stand where the water meets the dirt. When the wind blows, it bends the water around her boots.
She steps back from the water’s edge. She breathes the winter air—Savors it as the freezing air stings her lungs. Her eyes fall to her feet. She bends down and unlaces her boots. She sets them neatly to the left of where she stands. She ritualistically removes her socks and places them inside the boots. She lets here black coat fall from her shoulders and fly to the ground. Under her coat she is wearing a simple white dress—nothing more. The air and rain whip around her, but she is too numb to feel it.
She walks forward towards the waters edge once more. Images flash through her mind. She can almost smell the summer air. Recall the way he laughed for her. The way the moon light and heat seemed to reflect off the water. She was happy then. She remembers the way the swing on the far side of the pond swayed in invitation. It was all gone now, as her feet felt the icy bite of the water.
She waded into the water, the hum of a familiar lullaby played in her head. The melody recalled innocence and home. The water was at her waist. The wind blew her hair out of her face and in her eyes shined a smile of contentment. Like the familiar steps to a well know dance, she relives the feel of his skin, the warmth of his lips, the smell of his body and as his sapphire eyes shine in her mind she goes under.
The rain beats upon the surface, like death knocking on the door of mortality. The murky water embraces her. Her heart beats in her ears. Thump. Thump. Thump, thump, thump….thump. Her body burns from the sting of the water and her lungs scream for air, but she ignores the urge to surface. She swims for the bottom. Dizziness takes over and as her body swims, so does her mind. She closes her eyes and drifts as the darkness takes over. With one final breathe; she tastes the dissolve of the pond water. She fades.
He is bundled head to toe in an attempt to stave off the cold. He had come home to find her, but the house was empty. All that she left was note, weighed down on the kitchen table by a copy of a Flannery O’Connor anthology. In her simple print she had wrote, “To the Pond.” He hated the thought of going there. He hated the rain, the winter, the pond—the warmth of their memories there never seemed adequate enough to stave of the loneliness he had felt since they had begun falling apart this fall.
He rushed down the lane. His sandy hair ruffled by the wind. His blue eyes cold and distant from any sign of what he was really feeling. Usually she was his emotional hostage, but today he was placating to her demands. He couldn’t help but to feel a sting of guilt. By the time he reached the top of the path, he was running. The woods were quiet as if to abstain from involvement, it made him uneasy and panicked.
His long legs made monstrous strides as he blew through the wind and freezing rain nearing the pond. He burst through the yellow grass onto the muddy shore; His impatient eyes scanning the shore for any sign of her. His heart skipped a beat when his eyes fell upon her boots. He dashed to them. Confusion and anger take over; his eyes dart frantically around searching for her. On the far end of the pond, near the shore with the swing—a flash of white catches his eyes.
He sprints the perimeter. Frantic. Pleading with god. The crow caws again and sends goose bumps racing over his arms. He reaches the shore. The flash of white is now a familiar form bobbing in the water. Her black hair frames her face. He green eyes upward toward the sky. She resembles a Celtic beauty set to sail the dreaded waters of the Avalon.
He slumps back on the shore. His face conflicted with rage and sorrow. He breathes in trembling and holds it. He is afraid to breathe again—afraid off the truth that floats in the water just a couple feet from where he sits. He shakes his head in disbelief. Questions race through his head. Could his love have destroyed her so? The winter rain pelts down numbing what is left of his pride—he breaks out in sobs.
He wants to reach for her, but he can’t bare the thought of holding her lifeless body. Tears continue to stream down his face. His wedding band pulls at his finger. The simple gold band throbs in accusation. He had failed. He had made her suffer these last few months and he couldn’t recall why he made her do so. His anger and resentment seemed shallow and wasteful now.
He had never cried as hard as he was crying now. His eyes burned, his chest ached, his mouth was dry, and all he could think about was how empty he felt in side. His eyes were fixated upon her delicate frame. The way the water of the icy pond rocked her. He was pleading with her to move. Hoping that life would some how return, but it never did.
The darkness of the winter night began to fade. The sun was rising in the west. It was low and hazy, as if it wasn’t sure if there was a reason to rise. He reluctantly stands. Whipping tears from his eyes and face. He can’t go home. She’ll be waiting for him in picture frames and spirit. He can’t bare the thought.
He stumbles around the pond towards the swing. It sways in the wind unsure of what to make of the rain and the cold. He reaches for the rope that holds the simple wood seat in place. Rage fills every inch of his being. The second he held the rope he had held her again. The way she laughed when he pushed her. The way her sweet voice sang, “Faster, faster.” He couldn’t contain himself. In anger, he rips the seat from the rope—two tattered ends fly about in the wind. He throws the wood aside.
He falls to his knees. The image of her lifeless body engraved in his mind. He faces away from the pond, unable to look at her that way. He rises again and climbs the massive oak tree and sits on the branch where the ropes are tied. He can see her from here. The wind and rain have pushed her body further into the center of the pond. He pulls one of the ropes up and holds it in his hands as if it were a newborn child.
He can’t live without her. He doesn’t know how. He lays the rope in his lap. He pulls the end up to lie in the shape of an U. Without thinking he fastens a noose. His body shakes with the force of his sobs. He lifts the rope. It is around his neck. Guilt twists his stomach into knots. He moves his bottom forward, balancing on the edge of the branch. He casts his eyes down to the pond. She is there—looking towards heaven.
He jumps. There is a crack. He sways lifeless from the branch. The woods are still in that instance. His eyes were shut when he jumped, but are open now; the stains of tears are fresh on his shirt. His wedding band sparkles in the morning light. Their house sits empty.
The sun is over the horizon. The rain has stopped. The song of a swallow can be heard. The day may turn out to be beautiful. She floats weightless and carefree and he hangs there empty from the massive branch of the oak tree. The wind is cold and the sun cast shadows over the pond. Her eyes never leave the sky. His eyes never leave her.