Frozen

Now imagine that you knew one person you could ride toward who might help you feel better, at least for a little while because although she had her own set of circumstances from which she'd like to run, maybe, and a tendency to avoid commitment,(just the same as you), she had perfected the art of holding things together in her head and was capable of making a space, any space, whatever space she was given, seem livable, bearable, hell, even comfortable and cozy and warm, and someplace you would always want to be.
Imagine that in her house you knew you would find light and warmth, and rest and escape for a few short hours maybe, and that because at least one of your dreams had come true (for the moment at least), you knew you'd find two arms that would hold you tighter than you'd ever been held, two lips that would say all the right things and then kiss you with a tenderness and fire that would be branded on your soul forever, and a voice that would whisper softly, "Shh, it's okay," while her fingers stroked and smoothed your forehead until you finally fell asleep.
Imagine how lucky you would feel, in the scheme of things, knowing that there was someone in the world, even just one person, who could make you feel warm in the middle of the Maine winter that would bring the death of your mother, who would forgive you for leaving your mother on what you thought would be her deathbed, and who could convince you that you were capable of doing what you had to do, could be the man you had to be, and convinced you that you had to go back, and then agreed to go back with you.
Imagine having someone who would laugh with you at all the tight-lipped, judgmental looks that the people in the hospital corridors would throw your way because you hadn't visited your mother the day before, or because your hair was matted, or because your eyes were red and they thought that you must be doing drugs because someone like you did not feel sadness and never shed tears.
Imagine watching someone like that hold your mother's hand in her own and sing little songs in the soft clear voice you loved, and being able to see, finally, your mother laying still, her breath coming slow and even, her face relaxed and her body resting and peaceful. And though she seemed unable to hear or see anything and was essentially gone from this world, imagine feeling, for the first time in months really, that your mother was okay for the moment, and that this person had been able to soothe and relax her in the same way she soothed and relaxed you.
And then imagine going home with that person, to live for the time being, in rooms that were painted the colors of warmth, and feeling surrounded and protected, swaddled and safe, and warm, yes warm for the first time in so long, right down to your bones. Imagine spending evenings, after you'd returned from visiting you mother in the cold, harsh, white light of the hospital, sitting in a room lit by fire and the small lamp illuminating the keys of the piano, listening as she played while you sat in the chair, eyes closed, silent and dreaming, yes and warm by the fire, forgetting everything but the color of the room, the sound of the each note and the scent of the apple wood logs that wafted past and over and through you as you sank down and down and down into sleep.

Now imagine leaving that person. Imagine that your mother had finally died, after what had seemed like a torturous eternity, but was really not nearly long enough, because at the end, you couldn't bear to let go. You would have sold your soul to have one more second with her, though she hadn't spoken in weeks and before that, even when she had spoken, she gave no indication that she knew who you were, but yes, imagine that you would have sold your soul to have one more second with the world turning and your mother still in it, breathing.
Because, imagine that even before she was gone, you had begun missing her, and it had opened up a hole in you so big and black and deep that you did not know how you could live with it, and you knew that, as unacceptable as the situation was, that was just the way it would be- you would feel this emptiness forever and nothing anyone could say or do would change that.
Imagine looking up into the cold January sky, heavy with snow (again), pewter and leaden and as dead and ugly as you felt inside and thinking, "I can't live beneath this sky another day."
Imagine walking across ground that is frozen so hard that they can't even dig the hole to bury your mother's body and feeling the cold and resistance all the way into your tibia-the soles of your leather boots are frozen stiff and each step feels like metal hitting metal. Imagine you're walking atop earth that is hard and unyielding as iron, while at the same time knowing that in the Spring when the thaw comes and the dirt turns into a black and muddy soup, they will dig down into it, and you will watch as they place your mother's body in that ground-the same ground that will be as cold and hard and unyielding as iron again in another eight months. Because that is where they will place your mother, and you will have to watch, knowing that she hated the cold, and that she will be entombed in it for eternity now and that the snows will come and cover her over again and again, like a white and ineffectual blanket, but that she will never be warm.
Imagine looking at the river that runs through your town, frozen into something solid and immovable, gone from blue to white, and knowing that as the spring approaches (when they will bury your mother in the ground) the ice will begin groaning and shifting and moving, and the locals will begin placing bets and predicting dates as to when the river will move again, when enough ice will have melted so that the water will run free and unhampered within its banks. And then the slow buds will begin appearing on the trees and they will open lacy and brand new and green as a promise and the sun will grow rounder and more golden and stronger each day and it will feel closer and last longer on your face and it will warm your back through your shirt, but you will only be thinking of your mother.
Imagine knowing that the woman whose blood and bones and body produced your own and watched as you opened your eyes the first time, who showed you Spring, who taught you life, is lying under the ground, eyes closed for good now, and out of reach of the sun forever.
Imagine deciding that you can't bear to stick around, because you can't bear the thought of watching your mother being placed in the ground, you can't deal with the coming of Spring and watching the rebirth of the rest of the world knowing that she will still be dead.
So now, visualize yourself putting on your coat, picking up your helmet, checking your pockets to see that you have your gloves and your wallet and walking past your clean laundry spinning and tumbling noisily in the dryer. You might pat the dog lying lazily in his favorite spot, his back against the warm and vibrating washer, but you'd definitely continue walking quickly and purposefully through the attached shed and into the barn where your bike is parked. Imagine looking guiltily at the wood stacked there and thinking briefly about loading up the stove one more time so the house will be warm when she comes home from work, but then looking at your watch and realizing you don't have time because you know you have to be gone before she gets back or you will never have the strength to go, so you decide to meet courage with cowardice and loyalty with betrayal, and you slide the barn door open, walk your bike down the wooden ramp, put your leg over the seat and start the motor. Imagine that Mrs. Stitham, your next door neighbor who's sharp as a tack, though snowy-haired and wrinkled and gone past ninety now, pushes aside the curtains of her kitchen window and waves to you, "Good-bye, good-bye," she smiles and waves, and you raise your own hand in the motions of good-bye, gun the motor twice and ride away quickly, your eyes straight ahead and your bike pointed south.

Imagine not calling her for more than a year. Imagine that you had driven your bike as far as you could go on the gas it had in its tank that night, and that it had gotten you to Salem, Massachusettes. Visualize the trip that had taken you four hours, four hours in which you had watched the black road unfurl beneath your tires, and then in front of you in the telescoping cone of your headlight, like a mica-flecked ribbon. Four hours in which you had watched the bare branches of the trees turn from grey and solid forms almost, but not quite, invisible against the equally gray sky, and into ebony silhouettes against the trailing wisps of red and violet clouds at sunset and then picture driving in the open air aware of all the scenery slowly disengaging and disappearing into shadow as night falls and the temperature plummets.
Imagine that after four hours, you stop, finally, your hands and feet frozen and without feeling, at a bar and that you walk in, sit down and order a beer and a cup of coffee. And as you're sitting there and the feeling begins returning to your toes and fingers, imagine how guilty you would begin to feel as you pictured the woman you loved arriving home from work, unlocking the side door, entering the house and calling your name.
Imagine that you can't get the vision out of your head of her walking upstairs and through all of the rooms of the house, until she finally walks again past the door through which she had entered, through the laundry room and opening the door to the barn, pulls the string that lights the single bulb and notices that your bike is gone.
Imagine her loading up the sling with wood, struggling to get the fire restarted, shaking her head and maybe muttering a little curse at your laziness for letting the fire go out and if you were watching, you would see her walk to the stereo, put on something soft, probably some classical piano music, maybe Debussey, and then head for the kitchen to start cooking.
Imagine the smell of basil and pine nuts filling the air, as she boils water in a pot on the stove for pasta, and visualize the windows, black as the middle of the night at 6:00 in the evening, filling with fog from warmth and condensation, as well as with the reflection of this woman, who is kind and willing to do anything to help anybody, eating alone and then standing silently and washing the dishes. And then after she has cleaned up, leaving a plate for you covered and sitting on the warmer on the stove, she lets the dog out into the snow-covered side yard, and imagine that you can picture her walking through the house, from window to window, holding the curtains back, peering out into the darkness, looking for a headlight heading into the drive, and listening for the distinctive hum of the motor on your bike.
Imagine her calling all of your friends, as the evening wears on, laughing nervously as she talks to them, trying to sound casual when she asks them if they've seen you as the knowledge grows inside her, and she begins to feel a crushing weight in her chest, because she realizes that there is no gig that she has forgotten about, that you have done what she has known all along that you might do, and that you are gone.

And imagine not calling her for more than a year because you are so ashamed of how you've acted that you get drunk almost every single night of that time- just to shut out the voices in your head- you get drunk every single night for more than a year, and you have too much respect for her and misplaced pride to call her when you're drunk.
Imagine having to crawl up the stairs to get to your bed some nights because on the nights you have gigs, you drink and play the drums and on the nights that you don't have gigs you drink as you sit in your chair in front of your small black and white tv.
And imagine that even though you're alone most of the time, you never really feel alone because every minute of every day during that time, you are thinking of her and gathering the strength and the will to make it one day without drinking, so that you can call her and then see her, because you know that is what will have to happen-as long as you are both still breathing- it is what will have to be.
So then imagine how you would feel when one afternoon in mid-April, one year and three months after riding away, you are walking down the sidewalk, and for some reason, you happen to look up toward the sky and notice that the trees have just started showing new leaf, tight little buds on black branches opening just enough to make you feel warm, and then you feel or smell something that makes you think of hope for the first time in five years, so you walk in the house and you pick up the phone and you dial her number.
Imagine that you almost hang up, in fact you have decided to just hang up after it has rung five times with no answer, but then you hear her voice, for the first time in more than a year, questioning and slightly out of breath, you hear her say, "Hello?" and your heart stops and your hand freezes and you bring the phone up to your mouth and you say, "Hey, Rebecca?" And there is absolute silence. And then imagine that she says, fast and low and sounding kind of desperate, "Who is this?" - and then- "Don't **** with me," and you laugh, because that is just so like her, and you say something like, "Miss Gardner, if I were your English teacher, I'd have to give you an A-plus for brevity and clarity of expression," and then you wait because she doesn't laugh, but then she says, "Jamie." That's it, just your name.
You answer, "Yeah," and imagine how you might feel afraid to even breathe, because you're waiting to see if she is going to hang up on you, but inside you know that she won't, because she can't, because you need to be able to talk to her and you need her to talk to you. So, then imagine her saying, "We buried your mother," and that then you would not know what to say except, "Thank you".
And then imagine her asking how you are doing, and you'd start talking about your band and your place, talking about everything except how fucked up and sad you are and how you get so drunk every night that sometimes you can't even walk upstairs to your bed, and that then, because she is polite, she asks what kind of stuff your band plays and you answer saying, "Headbanger stuff, mostly- you wouldn't like it, but it's fun to play drums to."
And then imagine her giving just the tiniest little laugh, and instantly you are back there with her, and you see that shallow dimple in her cheek and her smile, because that is the thing you love most about her, because she has just the slightest little overbite and her two front teeth protrude just the smallest bit, giving her lips the sweetest little pout and then imagine that you say, without even pausing to take a breath, "Rebecca, I love you. I love your voice. I love your name. I love the way my mouth feels when I say it. I've missed saying it." And again, she says just one word, your name, "Jamie."
And you think that she might be crying, because she hates to talk when she's crying, and she remains just absolutely silent, though you can feel all the pain and what you take to be longing and love in that one little word and the way that she says it. And you are so tired of hurting her and making her cry, so imagine that you start telling her about the grief support group you went to once, because you know that she'll love this story, because it is just so absurd and you both love the absurd, so you tell her about the woman in the support group who was the great, great granddaughter of a whaling boat captain who told the group in all seriousness that her grandmother had committed suicide by impaling herself on an antique harpoon which had been a family heirloom.
And imagine that you hear her say, "Oh, ****" and after a slight hesitation in which you know she's struggling with herself, because she's basically kind and would never laugh willingly at anyone's pain, she bursts out laughing, as you knew she would, and she says over and over, "I'm sorry, it's just so tragically absurd," as you knew she would, and that then she asks, "So, what did everyone do?" as you knew she would, because she can't resist thinking about human beings and their behavior.
So you tell her that everyone else in the group nodded seriously and studied their hands sadly as they murmured comforting words in the direction of this woman, but that you started laughing, surreptitiously behind your hand at first, but ultimately, uncontrollably until tears ran down your cheeks and they kicked you out of the meeting and told you not to come back until you could behave appropriately and respect the grief of all people, and that you walked down the street, laughing, all the way home you laughed and when you woke up the next morning you thought about it and started laughing again.
And imagine that you can hear her on the other end, four hours and over two hundred miles away, still laughing, so you tell her another story, because for the two of you, laughing is like foreplay, and you just can't get enough of it from her, and you love the sound of her laughter, and then you hear her gasping and begging you to stop, so you do and you say again, "Rebecca, I love you."
And then imagine you hear her say, "And I love you too Jamie, but what difference did it make?" And then try to imagine how silent the line would fall, because you can't speak though you want to so badly, you want so badly to let her know that her love for you had made all the difference in the world, that it is the only reason that you were able to be with your mother when she died, that it is the only good memory you have of the last five years, and that you are holding off despair solely with the slim hope and maybe misguided, but necessary belief, that she might still love you-because that's the only thing that has kept you alive. But you don't say any of that because you're thinking too hard, trying to condense all of those thoughts into one cohesive sentence, and anyway, before you can even open your mouth to begin to speak, she says two words, "Come home."

True
Sweet, homes... I was in suspense there for a minute, worried about whether or not the woman found another dude or not. By any chance, is this about yourself of someone you know? If not then that's some smooth storytelling or Imagining. Splendiful wording, though. Rebecca's character was very comforting and there was much weakness to be found in the Imaginer.

Hurray! Hurray! Someone actually read it and had something to say! I'm so excited because I am trying so, so hard to write short stories and they come really, really hard for me....but I love the form so I'm determined....

Anyway - truthfully, please tell me what you think of the device of the Imaginer (I like that term) as narrator. I'm not too sure about that at all - I liked writing it that way- but I can see how it might be irritating for the reader to read it that way. How did you find it to be?

This story was kind of a conglomeration of actual events that took place at different times, but the Imaginer was one of the two (so far) loves of my life. I was crazy about him and did put up with a lot of **** - I'm usually not so patient and forgiving and unselfish- but he was also going through a horrible time when we met and I understood why he did everything he did. Part of what I loved about him was he was such a free spirit, and so open to me with his feelings- and I have a bad, bad habit of loving to be mothering and nurturing and wanting to take care of people- so we fulfilled each other's needs in a lot of ways. But we were also like two different sides of the same type of person (we had the same birthday) so we just clicked and laughed and had such a great time together. Eventually he went on to other things and so did I - but we'll always love each other - that kind of thing. So yeah, I cheated on the plot line - it was kind of made up for me- but yes, I did put the words together and I'm glad you liked them.
You're sorry you asked now - huh? I do have a tendency to rabbit on (as another poster used to say about me)

Anyway, if you have any other constructive criticism or suggestions for improvement, -please let me know- I can take it and I'd be so grateful for your help. Have a good evening- Aidan