Grief
Chana stood before Nina’s grave, unmoving, though far from unmoved. She had come every day since watching Nina’s casket being lowered into the empty, forlorn hole that would contain her body, if not her soul. Three hundred sixty-five days. All the time Nina had given her permission to come. Chana had counted each, lived each with the pain that didn’t diminish. She would not return.
An ocean of grief, contained in a single, salty teardrop, ran down her cheek before falling onto the fresh sod covering the grave. Nina wasn’t here. Chana knew that. Yet the pain drew her inexorably back, as she wished reality would dissolve and she could talk to her wife one more time.
Nina had received the terminal cancer diagnosis a month before their planned wedding. She had called it off, not wanting to burden Chana. Chana didn’t take no for an answer, moving the wedding up by two weeks. They had shared a lifetime of love in the few, precious months left to them.
Chana looked up at the blue sky above her but saw only the clouds floating across its expanse. Despite her pain, she turned and walked from the grave, keeping her promise to Nina. Today she would fly with her brother Sam to follow the cherry blossoms as they opened across Japan, visiting temples and sampling the cuisine—Nina’s dream honeymoon. Sam, who had stood silently behind her placed an arm around her shoulder as they slowly made their way to the waiting taxi.
Healing
“Are you on your honeymoon?”
The woman, smiling knowingly, had meant well. It was Chana’s first full day in Japan. She and Sam had come down late to breakfast, Chana having difficulty facing the day. She would have stayed in bed, but Nina had charged Sam with a sacred duty. “Make sure Chana takes the trip, and make sure she goes out every day to see the cherry blossoms.” She had known her wife too well. Sam had been kind but relentless.
“No,” Sam answered the woman. “This is my sister. We’re here for the Cherry Blossom Festival.”
“That’s nice. My husband and I are too, for our fortieth anniversary.”
Chana choked on the congratulations she couldn’t force from her lips. She and Nina hadn’t celebrated one anniversary. Sam spoke for both of them, then gently disengaged as the breakfast Chana didn’t want arrived. Another directive from Nina. “Make sure she eats.”
The first day was a free day. Sam made the arrangements, and they visited a local shrine, where Chana joined others in laying petals on a shrine for departed loved ones. She noticed the woman from breakfast doing the same, a man who must be her husband by her side.
Somehow, Chana got through the day, following the letter of Nina’s mandate, then falling into bed, exhausted. Merciless, Sam forced her out of bed and down to breakfast the following morning in time to board the bus that would take them to their next destination. The woman and her husband boarded after them and sat beside them.
“I noticed you at the shrine yesterday,” the woman said. “Who did you lose?”
For the first time since Nina’s death, Chana said the words. “My wife. My wife died.”
“I’m sorry. You’re too young to be a widow.”
Something shifted in Chana’s heart. “Thank you.” Somehow, hearing this from someone she knew was also grieving felt different. “I’m Chana. Who did you lose?”
“Our daughter. She was too young too. But she’s been gone ten years now. I still miss her, but it’s easier. I always visit the shrine here for her when we do the tour. She loved the cherry blossoms.” The woman smiled through a hint of grief. “I’m Marilyn, by the way.”
Marilyn and Sam switched seats. Chana spent the entire day talking with her, yet somehow, they never discussed their respective losses again. Nor did Chana resist getting up each morning. By the end of the trip, she and Marilyn had promised to book next year’s holiday together.
The Oxford Languages dictionary defines a triptych as “a set of three associated artistic, literary, or musical works intended to be appreciated together.” I know my use of the term stretches the definition a bit, given that what I present can be seen as one story. However, it is built on three themes. I decided I could get away with it.
Kim Smyth provided the prompt: grief, healing, recovery. Instead of writing it under a single title, I separated out the phases into three stories, each of which could stand on its own, but which come together, I hope, into a harmonious whole. I won’t lie. I cried as I wrote them.
I also decided to publish them over three consecutive Tuesdays, adding one piece of the triptych each week. I hope they somehow speak to you.
Please comment and share if you’re enjoying Fiction in 50.
I'm enjoying the continued healing of grief in these chapters. Looking forward to next one.
Yes, a healing. How wonderful and hopeful