I'll Wait. For You.

He looked at the photograph in his trembling hands. Two shadows on a sandy beach, the warm sun giving them life. It reminded him of another place, another time. The seaside, it’s delicate nature, a metaphor for love.

And loss.

The sand between your toes could be warm, comforting. Feeling its massage against the skin of your feet was the soft caress of a lover. And the cool, gentle waves lapping against the shore sent a shiver, like a tender kiss, shuddering through your body.

On the cool days, the sand could be hard. Its feel was a cold shoulder from a scorned lover. The icy water, sharp as dagger against the skin, hurt. The pain gave you goose bumps and came so quickly that you thought your heart would stop.

Love could be like that. One day, it was sunshine and warmth. The next, it was cloudy and cold.

And then the day came when his heart stopped. The day he got the call that she was gone. He had held out hope. Prayed. But it wasn’t meant to be.

The news hadn’t just stopped his heart. It froze it over, winter’s touch as cold her body now must be. She had been a fighter, but even the strongest fighters can lose.

And when the news came, like a hammer blow from an unseen assailant, his icy heart shattered.

He looked at the photograph in his trembling hand. Two shadows on a sandy beach, the warm sun mocking him with the life it had given them.

In his other hand, a modeling knife. A white knuckled grip shook violently, as though the strain of it could hold back his tears.

But much like a handful of sand gripped tightly will spill through your fingers, the tears began to sneak out. Their descent down his stubbled cheeks made no sound. Neither did he.

He raised the knife toward his wrist, toward the arm that held the hand that held the picture that held his heart.

When it touched his skin the metal's icy touch stopped him. It made him think of all the warm and cool days. He didn’t regret any of them, except for the last one. The final day.

It had been raining and was very cold.. He knew there had been tears in her eyes then, when she said her last “I love you”. Shortly thereafter, she was gone.

And he hadn’t been there.

He wondered about where she was now. If she was warm, happy. Was she smiling that special smile of hers? The one that melted his heart.

Like the one in the picture he held. The one that only he could see, when he closed his eyes.

Would she greet him there? Would she embrace him? She wanted him to move on. She wanted him to live his life and be happy. Would she want this?

No.

He looked at the photograph in his trembling hand. He looked at the knife, shaking there near his wrist, daring him. And slowly moved it away.

She had asked so little of him, how could he not do this? He would continue his life, though alone. He would find happiness in family and friends. He would imagine her warm smile with every success and her loving embrace with every setback. He would imagine her touch when he lay awake at night and her voice telling him that he could do anything.

“I’ll wait,” he whispered to the empty room. To the photograph. To her. “For you.”