A Sense of Loss and Reminiscence

Breathing in deeply, Walter Brimbly gazed out his window and watched as the neighborhood slowly came to life. Mothers waved goodbye as kids stepped onto their buses. Retirees picked weeds from their gardens. Birds flew across the sky as the sun rose from beyond the tree line. It was a nice view—life, as it had always been spoken about, was blooming. Being his age, Walter’s understanding of time, of it’s passing, had changed. Hours and days were interchangeable. Things have slowed to the point where reflection was living. Thinking back on the years where being in a routine seemed so . . . rigid, dull. The details, when motions felt automatic, seemed mundane. Normal. He longed for those times now.

Today, like most days, he sat alone holding his coffee as the neighborhood rose from its slumber. In the background, a clock ticked on and marked a faint rhythm. This was what Walter did in the mornings, afternoons, and evenings. It wasn’t much. Through the years since her passing, he’d found less to do. Less to contemplate, less to look forward to. Life had settled, so to speak. And here, now, Walter was engaged in that solemn placidity.

It was Autumn, just a few weeks from the beginning of November. The maple and hickory trees which covered the hillsides were warm, with yellow and orange leaves striking against the fair blue. The earth itself seemed rich, full, and bursting—a last swell of energy before the cold. This was her favorite time of the year, and when Walter’s mind drifted the most. He could see her, not as she was when she passed, but when she was young, healthy. When she was truly alive. Her hair, that curly red, danced in the breeze as they walked. Her eyes were always drawn above, looking towards something he could never discern. Her beauty, shining now in remembrance. He loved her. She was life.

They lived here in this house and built it as a place to grow old together. The floor always creaked at night, the roof moaned during heavy rains, but the foundation was solid. It was theirs, and with it, they were strong. But as they grew together, so did the longing for family, to give back to this earth something more.

* * *

Years passed. The floor creaked. The roof moaned. The foundation remained the same as it had always been. But it was waning.

A dream they shared, that of a full household, scampering feet, excited cries—that dream was hazy, and over time, had begun to lose its vivid color. She still smiled that sly smile, but behind her mask, he could feel the sorrow. They couldn’t have a child. All the effort, all the chances they took, it amounted to nothing. The seasons changed and time had let them be, but the feelings remained. The wanting. The warmth of family. Completeness.

In her twilight years, she became quiet. Prone to stillness, watching out that window, holding her coffee. Walter shared her pain in his heart, and understood it was now better left unspoken of. They had one another, and like they’d agreed many, many years earlier, it was enough for them.

But here, now in the present, Walter would clasp his hands together, speaking to her through gasps and wet cheeks. That longing, what had plagued them for so many years, sunk its daggers into him, and with her passing, left him to plead with God to let them be reunited once again.

This was the highest form of love. The kind that awakens one’s spirit at its absence. Let it be a reminder of what we truly care about: that which moves us—stirs our being—guides us towards that more perfect fulfillment. Even the losses, the feelings of shame, fear, sorrow, and desperation, these emotions bring that image into focus. Their bite may be what rouses us from our foggy day-to-day. Even if it hurts.