Wasting

Together they saw themselves apart. They saw themselves as young. Why can’t I find another love? they each thought with thickening core. These were days of boredom. Tart exhalations as laughter. These were days of longing. Of looking out the window. Of looking at the wall. Drooped faces turned against the other in a bed gone cold. Of sheets that were not the ones in which they’d loved. These were days of disgust. Of doing things the wrong way. Of leaving the other alone, early on a Saturday morning, in an empty house. These were days of silence. But what could they expect? They were old. Who would love their bodies? Who would endure their smells and habits? Who would know the faces in their picture frames? Who would care, if they knew? Who would laugh at their jokes? Only funny for their remembered punchlines. But who was the other beside them, huddling close only for the invading cold. Despite the never-forgotten words that only they heard. The wind protecting them from the others in seated in rows. The words that were everyone’s but only theirs. Sealing their lips

against all who would come later. Together they were strangers to their past. Was the old front door blue or white? Did it have six windows or four? Was it the vase that broke when the children were chasing around the house or the sculpture from Monaco? They didn’t take pictures at the time. Pictures were to fill in the gaps between things that would never be forgotten. Who was there to ask? What did it matter anyway? Whether the door was blue or white. Which child broke what. What did it matter? Together they saw themselves alone. They saw themselves abandoned. Insides drooping at the sight of the helpless and quivering other. Would you love me if I lost my legs? they used to ask each other in their cocoon spun of loving touch. If you had to feed me and take me to the bathroom? If I couldn’t speak? If I couldn’t tell you I loved you? Yes, Yes, Yes, and Yes. Together they remembered. Together they longed. Together they watched their bodies waste. Who would go first? Is that the reason for their disgust? Their hatred? Their indifference? Is it fear of standing alone at the other’s burial? Or of drifting aimless into emptiness? Together they were wasting. Why couldn’t they do the things that they once could do? Why did their hearts beat stronger against their chests? When the rest of their bodies were quieting? Was it their ticking clock? The one that which child broke? But their hearts were not in sync. One beat faster and louder. How many days would the other be alone? In a modern house that was never theirs? Alone in the silence of never-creaking stairs. In the silence of a television that would never be turned off. Together they were afraid. Who else could know their fear? And when the memories would rush in? Just before the end. When their hands would finally squeeze like they did in the beginning. When their hearts would pour. Who else could know what they alone shared? When in their final moments they would cling desperately. That they should not be taken. And if those final moments were the equal of all that came before… Together they remained.

-Ben Amendolara