Wednesday Morning Wordplay
As I often do in the early morning, I sit at my computer, select “New Blank Document” and begin writing. Sometimes I simply select a name, I may envision a scene, or I might consider a particular emotion. With that done, I write. Today I began with a beautiful, old-fashioned name, Hannah. I was not sure where this piece would take me, but below is the result.
Hannah was awakened early, not by a sound, but by a presence. She shivered under a light blanket and pulled it more tightly around her. It was still quite dark, but a hint of muted, morning light played at the corners of the window shade, promising a new day. She glanced at the clock: 4:44.
“Hi,” she whispered. I know you are here.
It was a satisfying moment, for it was her husband, Will, who, in her mind, was paying a visit. I’m okay, but I miss you so much.
Will had left her in December, two days before a new year. It was as though he had set her free to begin again, only this time, alone. She had not been ready, and she remembered.
He had been sitting in his favorite chair staring peacefully at a welcome fire that crackled and sparked in the ancient fireplace. In one hand he had held a small glass of port, and in the other, a book of poems, his. Writing had been a salve for Will for many years. Away from the daily grind of an assembly line existence, each day he wrote in his diaries. Composing was as necessary as breathing, the act of wordplay soothing his soul. That unforgettable night, he had been seemingly content musing over his verses, his sweet wife by his side, with not a care in the world. Hannah had been not six feet away silently watching him, a skein of yarn bobbing on the floor as she tugged and wound the thread into a loose ball. And suddenly it had happened. Stirring slightly, he had glanced up at her fleetingly before tilting the glass of port into his lap. As the liquid poured out like a miniature waterfall, he had dropped the glass, and it shattered to the floor. Will’s hands had fallen open then, his diary sliding away, and he had slumped forward as if in prayer.
“Will!” Hannah had gasped.
He had not replied of course, for in that instant, he was dead.
A year had gone by, but the shock and devastation resulting from his passing lived on stubbornly. Thoughts of Will filled Hannah’s mind the first thing every morning and accompanied her to bed each night. During the day, like clockwork, when memories of him pressed at her heart she would note the time. She began to expect it. More often than not, the clock read: 1:11, 2:22, 3:33, 4:44, or 5:55. It was uncanny, a strange reoccurrence that she welcomed like a friend, and each time, she would whisper in a breathless voice, “Ah, Will.” I know you’re here. I miss you so much.