The Only Choice

The cicadas are here again, hanging from branches, clinging to the crimson tips of sunlight that tendril forth from deep green canopies. Like ghosts, they leave their bodies behind.

 I don’t remember the last time they visited. It must have been before I ever knew him. Sometimes it’s hard to believe there was a before. That there will be an after.

 I keep thinking of our final night together, sitting side by side on the porch steps, knees almost touching. But not, not anymore. We sipped white wine and stared out into the falling dusk, watching the silhouettes of the trees across the street grow grainy, disappearing eventually into darkness.

 There was nothing left to say and, still, everything hanging there between us. A closed box, a life, a history, an ache in my throat down to my chest, where it beat against my shattered heart, my cold and helpless heart.

 I wanted to say I’m sorry. But what right had I to those words? Useless words, which have failed me, failed him, again and again. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Words that do little to ease the hurt.

 I wanted to say ‘I still care,’ or rather to say something that would communicate this to him. Oh, useless words, how can I blame you? You have been poetry in my hands, but even that is not enough. I wanted to say. Instead I said, “I’ll miss these trees.” The house, the park, the safety of your arms, the sour of your breath. I wanted to say that, too, but the shapes were blurring together, and my chest was unbearably tight. Finally, he stood, turned, and walked inside. Maybe he looked back at me, seated there alone. I’ll never know. Still, I stayed, letting the warm night air swallow me. Swallow me whole. The cicada’s song the only sound. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

 I had to choose myself.

 Alone I searched for grief in the stillness, in the fullness of dark. I searched for grief where I could not see, for a shape to hold the grief I knew would come. Maybe it was easier that way, easier than having to face myself, the choices I had made, and will make, to survive. I wish I could have given him a reason, something tangible to hold onto. Not just that my heart was drowning. It’s not your fault. I wasn’t meant for this. I wish, I wish, I wish. What my women friends know instinctually, he cannot understand. My restless heart. My treacherous, lonely heart. Will you ever be satisfied?

 Grief shadow dances now among the trees, a different set of trees, trees that sway to the soothing, pulsing rhythms of the cicada’s melody. He has long since gone to sleep. But I remain, mourning what I’ve cast away, what I’ve already lost. I wanted this. I want this. And still I mourn. And still I mourn.

 Years the cicadas have waited underground to crawl out now and shed their skin, begin again, grow wings and fly away. Oh, my heart, my wild heart, show me how to begin again.

-Faune Vita

Faune Vita is a writer and artist from the Ozark Mountains. She currently teaches at a small college in Western Mass and dreams of moving to the desert.