Life Under the Stove Light

There’s a photo of a man somewhere above an old obituary. The color picture has started to run and bleed. He is thinning on top and his smile looks very quiet. He holds a secret they can't love out of him. Love, while noble, can't solve everything.

It had seemed to him as though life was on tracks. Yes, a train on tracks. In high school he got the notion that she, his wife, liked him. What on earth could he have said? He had no reason not to love her back. She was pretty, she was sweet. There was never any kind moment to step away, never anyone else. There was no motivator, no clandestine romance, just his train, on its path. Like a train too, his life couldn't be derailed without injury to everyone. It was less a feeling of fate than a feeling of undertow, or soul eating guilt.

He got up a lot in the night. Really, that was the only tell. Got up at three in the morning and ate liverwurst sandwiches, read yesterday's paper. He dreamed a little, without realizing. Before he could ever think to stop himself, he ran through romantic little made up stories. In his mind's eye, some woman, no more beautiful than his wife, just understood him.

The dreams took on a frantic aspect as the morning greyed around that charming weathervane his wife had had him put up. They lost structure until they became no more than comforting images of being split open between the ribs. Then he went to bed. He lay down right next to her. Beside, but not with, her in a way he couldn't describe. He'd never tried to describe it to her. Just imagine the headlines, he thought: Train Goes off its Tracks, Kills three, Operator Subject to Inquiry.

When the cancer came creeping in, it seemed to eat everything that had padded and couched his insubstantial secret. He stared out a great deal when they cried or held his hand, pretending to be unaware. There was endless time to dream, and to mourn, and to turn over that lonely feeling behind his sealed ribs. He'd spent a whole life feeling like a lost child, being torn to pieces by wind from every direction. He'd been restrained but not held, too ashamed and confused to be bitter.

At two in the afternoon on an unremarkable Wednesday he began crying in his bed. It was the first time in maybe thirty years. There was no more time to be. His dreams slipped away like wild horses, only alongside the tracks a little while. He watched them go and he cried.

When the tears were done he passed away, quietly, causing no disturbances. At his wake they spoke about how much they loved him. It was a very pretty thing to hear and would have made you smile.

By F. Pokorny