*In the style of Emily Dickinson . . . or at least I tried*

I do not think I could survive

Without you by my side –

Your hand, your heart, your name in mine,

And no one can divide.

But life is not eternal;

We are promised but today,

And I fear the separation

That will part us on that day.

I wonder if I will be first,

Will breath rip from my throat?

Or will I be left alive

While Death and God both gloat?

In truth, I know that on that day,

Should you be torn from me,

My heart, my body, and my mind

Will join you rapidly.

As I leaned down to pull the last of the socks out of the laundry basket, I sniffed, trying to keep my nose from dripping on the clean laundry. Sighing, I dropped the socks onto the bed and grabbed a tissue from the nightstand. Even though it was already June, the last of my seasonal allergies refused to let go.

Then again, maybe it was for the best. It was easy to blame my red eyes and sniffling on the unusually high pollen count since it was half-true anyway. The excuse made it easier to hide the fact that I was crying far more often than usual these days. I was grateful for the explanation, but I had no idea what I would do once summer arrived in all of its hot, sweaty glory, and my seasonal allergies could no longer take the blame.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if I could just pinpoint the reason for my foul mood. Every little thing sent me into a spiral of tears, or worse, the nearly irrepressible urge to punch someone or something. It was like never-ending PMS, something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

As I paired off the socks and folded them, I examined my life – the same now as it had been for the past five years. I was still working from home, a change I made in preparation for the family we never started. Dave and I got up at the same time every day. He rushed out the door, sometimes remembering to kiss me on the cheek or yell “I love you!” as he walked out the door. I rolled out of bed, woke up my body with a half hour of yoga, showered, dressed, grabbed breakfast, and sat down at my desk for another day of work. In the evenings, I cooked dinner, which we sat and ate in front of the TV.

It wasn’t the life I imagined.

We got married young and fast because we were so sure of ourselves and each other. I could remember how it felt back then – on our own for the first time, learning how to be adults together. Everything was new and different and exciting.

Now, I was on the sidelines watching my friends get married and have children, and I was left wondering what happened to that excitement in my life.

I didn't stop loving him. But I did find myself wondering where my life was going and how he was making it better.

We weren’t trying anymore. Neither of us had ever been big on romantic gestures, but even the little things had stopped. Not all at once, and I don’t think I noticed it right away. But little by little, Dave stopped opening doors for me. He stopped doing little chores around the house when he noticed they needed to be done. He stopped grabbing me from behind, wrapping me in one of his bear hugs.

And if I was completely honest with myself, I had stopped, too. I had stopped sneaking little notes for him into his pockets. I rarely bought him his favorite candy when I went shopping anymore. I often went to bed without wishing him good night or saying “I love you.”

I dropped the last of the socks onto the bed and started crying – big, heaving sobs that nearly threatened to suffocate me. Was my marriage over? Did I let it fade away without even noticing?

I coasted through the rest of that day, barely registering what I was doing. My mind was a whirlpool of swirling thoughts. Is it my fault? What could I have done differently? Is my marriage a lost cause? Is it too late? What happens if he leaves me?

Five o’clock rolled around, and I could barely breathe as I waited to hear Dave’s car pull into the driveway. I didn’t know what I’d say, but I knew I had to say something.

I stared at the door until he walked through it. He was startled when he saw me. “Hi,” he said with an awkward smile. He took in my expression, my fidgeting hands, my red eyes, and his smile turned into a concerned frown. “What’s wrong?”

I had wanted to stay calm and collected, to explain my concerns thoughtfully and logically. But all that went out the window the second he spoke those words. I burst into fresh sobs and threw my arms around his middle.

“What’s wrong, honey?” he repeated. “Did something happen?”

It took me far longer than I care to admit to calm down enough to talk to him. Dave led me to the couch and sat down next to me, holding me and rubbing my back, speaking softly and soothingly as I sobbed. Finally, I could breathe deeply enough to speak through my tears, and I told him everything. I told him my fears. I described the things he no longer did for me and the things I no longer did for him. I told him how much it hurt, how lonely I felt.

As the last of it spilled out of me, I realized how truly terrified I was. Dave was my best friend, the one person in my life who knew me, understood me, and stayed by my side anyway. I wasn’t happy, but I still loved him. Had I just ruined my own life?

Dave looked at me long and hard. I sat uncomfortably under his silent gaze until he finally said, “You’re right. I guess we got too comfortable. I’m not sure if I would have noticed if you hadn’t said anything, but it’s true. Neither of us really tries anymore, do we?”

There was a beat as I waited for him to continue, not trusting my voice to reply.

“So, what do you want to do about it?”

I didn't know how to answer that. I sat on that couch, staring at my hands and searching for an answer. He didn't bother waiting until I found one.

“Are you saying you think we should get a divorce?”

I looked up at this new question, but Dave wouldn’t look at me, and I was terrified that he was hiding a hopeful expression. After all, if I wanted a divorce, he didn’t have to be the bad guy and ask for one himself.

But I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t let him off the hook so easily. If he wanted to leave me, I was going to make him admit it and give me an explanation.

“Do you think we should get a divorce?” I asked.

“God, no!” He finally looked at me, and his eyes were filled with a terror I had never seen in him before.

“Look,” he said, turning his body to face me. He took my hands and held them between us. “You were right. Things have changed between us. And I’m not sure if it’s your fault or mine. Probably both. But I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t notice. I’m sorry I dropped the ball. I’m sorry I hurt you.

“But Lisa, I don’t think we’re done. I’m not ready to give up. I love you, and I don’t want to let you go without a fight. Please, say you’ll fight with me!”

And just like that, I wasn’t the only one crying anymore. In that moment, Dave’s tears meant that the thought of our marriage ending scared him as much as it did me, and that comforted me. It wasn’t over. There was still a chance.

“Yes, I’ll fight for us,” I said through my tears. “Of course, I’ll fight for us.”

For a moment, everything looks familiar. I’m sitting in the back seat of the van my parents had when I was a kid. My dad is sitting in the driver’s seat, and we’re driving over the bridge that crosses the river that borders my hometown. I know this road like the back of my hand. Growing up, we crossed this bridge both ways at least twice a week.

When I turn around, I should see the town behind me. So, I turn, and I do. But it’s not as I know it should be.

It’s on fire.

I can barely make out the buildings in the flames. The wall of fire seems impossibly high, and it’s getting closer.

“DAD!” I scream.

He looks in the rearview mirror at me and then back at the road. We are at a standstill. The cars in front of us aren’t moving, and both lanes of traffic are blocked. There is nowhere to go.

The flames roar behind us, engulfing everything in their path. In almost no time at all, the fire is right behind us.

And I wake up.

Linda leaned over the stove, whisps of hair plastered to her face by sweat. She scooped up a piece of potato and blew on it before popping it into her mouth, then smiled, satisfied with her brew.

“Mommy!” Oliver ran in through the back door, covered in mud with matching green grass stains on his knees. He bounced from one leg to the other, doing a funny little jig that Linda recognized immediately.

“Bathroom!”

“But-”

“You can tell me when you’re done. Go before you have an accident!”

Ollie frowned but obeyed. Linda listened for the sound of the flushing toilet and the faucet, only returning to her soup when she had heard both.

When he returned to the kitchen, Ollie said, “Mommy, there’s a rainbow outside!”

“Show me!”

Oliver led her to the back porch. In the dark blue sky stood a brilliant rainbow. Linda patted her son’s head and laughed as she pulled a bit of clover from his hair.

“You know,” she said. “Legend has it, rainbows are good luck.”

“They are?” Ollie said, eyes wide.

Linda sat on the porch staring at the sky with her arms wrapped around her little blessing until the last of the rainbow’s colors faded.

He twisted his fate between his fingers. The string was so short, so fragile. Everything he had ever done, had ever seen, had ever experienced – all of it was contained in this tiny string.

Today, that string would be cut. The three ancient women hovered over him, one of them holding a pair of scissors, another holding the eye they shared between them.

He had come intending to face his fate bravely, to give up his life for the sake of another, his beloved. It had been an easy decision.

Yet now that he stared at the string, his string, he hesitated.

Once that string was cut, there was no going back. No second chances. The weight of it hadn’t hit him until now.

He glanced at the three witches, still hovering, and then back at the string. No. He wasn’t ready.

He turned and ran as fast as his legs would carry him. As he rounded the bend, he tripped.

The last thing he saw was a rock as sharp as a knife slice neatly through the string.

It’s safe in here –

All cozy and warm,

And a part of me hates to leave it.

But while I sit here,

The world flies by,

And I know I’m missing something.

I may be safe,

But is safe worth it

When there is so much more out there?

I am not alone. It may feel like hell itself, but I am not alone. That one thought keeps me sane as the roars of animals, both lion and human, pound against my eardrums. How long have I known this day was coming? And yet, somehow, I never imagined it would ever arrive.

Now, here I am, surrounded by creatures who will settle for nothing less than my life. I shudder at the very sight of the lions’ bared teeth, knowing they will shortly be ripping my flesh apart, but I don’t blame them. They know nothing but their hunger, and it is no fault of their own that my companions and I are the only food within reach.

No, it is the people cheering for my gruesome death who earn my condemnation. To them, I am nothing but entertainment. They will never see me as a person, worthy of living my life until its natural end. I am a plaything for them to watch and mock.

I will die today. There is no denying that. And yet, after a life that was barely worth living, I find I don’t want it to end.

As the door to our cage opens, I stagger backward, my resolve faltering. A hand catches me, steadying me, and a voice whispers in my ear, “We are free.”

I close my eyes and let the words wash over me. Free. The word has never defined me. Until today. No longer will they control every aspect of my life. No longer will I be forced to work myself to death just to keep from starving. No longer will I sweat and bleed for the sake of others. Today, I die. Today, I am free.

Please don’t send me flowers. I know you mean well. I know you’re only doing it because you don’t know what else to do. Honestly, I don’t know either. All I know is, I don’t think I’ll want to see another flower for a long time.

It’s funny how something that typically brings such joy can become a symbol of such sorrow, that something so bright and colorful appears when the world should be dark and gray.

There were so many flowers at her funeral. So many people commented on them, saying how much she would have loved them. They were right; she would have. But she wasn’t there to appreciate them. She’ll never be here. It’s just me now. And as much as I try, I can’t appreciate them.

I can’t look at a bouquet and admire the soft colors or take in the intricate patterns of the delicate petals. I can’t enjoy their aroma that fills the room. All I can do is remember her and remind myself that she’s not here to enjoy them.

Please don’t send me flowers.