Spring Rain
Ranwen

Despite knowing that the forecast for that afternoon was heavy rain, Mallory had picked up a bouquet of grocery store carnations, driven half an hour out to Woodview Cemetery, picked her way across the muddy March lawn and, with a wadded tissue from her pocket, scrubbed away the streaks of dirt covering the inscription on the granite stone Mike’s insurance had paid for one year ago that day.

As she knelt in the dead grass, she remembered filling out that line on the order form, “Michael Oliver Kinney, 1969-2007”, and wondering if he would have wanted something a little more poetic, and then wondering what poetry could rationalize or normalize murder?

She remembered being woken in the early hours of the morning by a call from the police, and rushing to the hospital in her pajama bottoms, where she sat at his bedside, marveling at the sight of the normally animated Mike lying so neatly and quietly. She had seen his chart before they filed it away, and a nurse had calmly explained the jargon to her: mild head trauma, heavy blood loss from a scalp wound and hypothermia. She said it was probably already too late for him by the time he was found, unconscious and liberated of his wallet, and Mallory had nodded and thanked her robotically, still vaguely hoping the entire incident was just a nightmare.

She remembered calling in sick the next day, not needing to fake a horse voice, and compiling a list of friends and family, choosing to exclude her young nieces and nephews. She remembered attempting to explain to her mother over the phone that the man she had been living “in sin” with for over three years was dead, and buying a dull black dress that she later discovered bunched up under her arms. She remembered meeting with her lawyer to discuss Mike’s will, something they had neglected to do as a couple, and assuming ownership of the apartment they had shared.

She remembered watching the murderer from the courthouse benches. He was a thin, jittery man, who haltingly explained in broken phrases that he had needed the money. He had not seen her expression of defeat and disappointment as she realized that she could not find the energy to hate him.

And then she remembered the job offer from D.C. she received last week. She nonchalantly dropped the envelope on her desk after bringing it home Friday night, intending to leave it until Monday. However, she ended up reading it over at least thirty times before going to bed.

It was a tempting offer; higher pay for the same number of hours, good benefits and her own office, but it would be a change. She would be vulnerable; completely alone for the first time in years, unfamiliar with the area and with her colleagues. She would need to sell the apartment. She might move on, and that, more than anything, terrified her.

Was it too soon to leave the home and relationships she and Mike had established, even if he wasn’t there? True, the past year had been difficult, but what else would it be? Would she forget him, or worse, did she already want to forget him?

Mallory stood up stiffly, leaving the carnations next to the stone. “I’m going to do it, Mike,” she whispered, looking at the lively red flowers instead of the cold, stark granite. “I need to. And I’m going to try not to feel bad about it.” She smiled faintly at the flowers and turned to scan the gray horizon. “It’s going to rain, so I’ll see you later.”