I sat in the car with my wife and travelled up to the cemetery where I’d been buried not long before. She didn’t know I was there, of course, I was now the silent passenger, the observer, the helpless carer whose love for her continued on like an afterglow on the planet where we had both lived. My presence would gradually fade as the last embers of my emotion vanished from this place
She seemed to be disoriented and walking up the wrong path. At last she arrived at a grave. “Frank Sutherland, Father to Christopher and Cecelia. 1954-2015”. . . My name was Phillip. Pausing briefly she then knelt and laid the flowers on his grave. I had known him well, a local care free drunk and party man who left a litter of children across the locality and died in a moment of reckless euphoria at the wheel of a borrowed car. On one famous occasion he had run for mayor.
I became aware of a presence and now here he was beside me, cheery as ever, and standing in death by his grave smiling down at my wife. “We first slept together twenty-three years ago.” he said by way of explanation, “Sorry, but, bloody hell, she was a goer and half wasn’t she”. I would have raised my eyebrows if I still had any, but I could still feel surprise.
After the rare episodes of love-making with my wife, where our hands moved only as much as was necessary to ensure a satisfactory conclusion there would be a pause. A feeling of shyness mixed with embarrassment and then it was always the same. I would roll off and she would say “Thank you.” Not in a cold way, but in a clear and deliberate voice, as though I’d just bought her a cup of tea: that was it, followed by slumber; the routine was unchanging. She was my one foray into intimacy; perhaps I had missed something.
I was a surveyor, on the neighbourhood watch committee, golf club member and local historian. I attended church regularly and made every effort to support my family: I’ve no idea what Frank did. He always seemed to get by on a wing and a prayer, somehow evading responsibility and defying the normal laws of economic gravity ,and the downside of reckless living, till he had one escapade too many.
Work took me away a fair bit, but we talked on the phone, and her reliable calmness was always a source of pride to me in my journey through life. “She could dance”, continued Frank, “as if there was no space or time, you know; urgent, wild”. There is no anger in death, only love and regret so regret it was, waves of it. “Didn’t you feel any shame,” I said ” Destroying the bonds of another family”. “Life’s too short for regrets, at least mine was” he replied, visibly, or possibly invisibly amused, depending on your circumstances.
The mutual object of our affection was now kneeling in an act of fruitless prayer for his soul as we stood beside her. I, feeling more and more like a guest in her life rather than a part of it, turned to him in sorrow and said, ” At least I have my child. She goes on”
“Have you ever studied your daughter’s eyes” he said, “They are my colour” and his frame rocked in silent laughter. He seemed to be finding death as amusing as life. Hell, I discovered, was loving someone who viewed you without respect, and having your memory ridiculed at your passing.
Great post Peter. I just loved it so much !! 👍😊
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Thank you so much. Your comments are always a pleasure to read
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You are welcome Peter 😊. Your blog is really awesome and inspiring. You have a great gift within you.Please continue blogging and inspire people around you 😊. And if you can please do visit my blog and let me know about it. It would be really helpful 😊. This is the link to my blog
http:// authorabhijith.com
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Reblogged this on The Militant Negro™ and commented:
Magnificent writing.
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Thank you very much. Greatly appreciated
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This is one of the best things I’ve read in awhile. Thank you.
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Gosh, this is heartbreaking and beautiful in equal measure.
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Thank ye kindly . Your support is always very appreciated
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You are welcome, but I’m not sure I can handle this much conflict of emotion so early in the morning!
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Quite agree with you. Walking firmly past the whisky bottle towards the teapot at this end of the conversation. Self-discipline is everything is it not. 🙂
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I admire your personal fortitude, my dear fellow, I really do! 😉
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If his lights weren’t already, I’d punch them out!
This kind of afterlife sucks. Good post.
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I agree, he is a hard man to admire !
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I’ve said it a thousand times – but I needs say it a thousand more – (I’ve probably said it only once actually) – but this is vintage countingducks stuff… I’ve got my own bent on things, but now and again, when I read every one of your postings, I wish I had your bent on things… !
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Believe me, your support for my blog and writing are deeply appreciated. I’m just coping with the news that my publisher has gone bust so any cheering comments welcome 🙂
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Oh dear – sorry to hear that. A writer worth his/her salt is always bigger than his/her publisher…
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This post brought up a lot of emotions in me. Anger, sorrow, fear… It’s such a short story and yet you did so much with it! Excellent storytelling!
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This is an incredibly powerful piece. So completely heartbreaking, and yet there’s that glint of humour. I loved reading every word of this 🙂
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the final stab to the heart from the grave –
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I always love your comments. There is always so much knowledge behind them, and who could wish for anything better?
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Brilliant, short, sharp, emotionally charged. Loved the way you set it up in the first paragraph: wife going to the cemetery to pay respects to her husb……..lover.
I always enjoy reading your postings first thing in the morning here in Canada. It’s a great start to the day and fuel for musings of the day. Thank you.
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Bless you. To share that adventure, so early in our lives was one of my great experiences and it is so nice to re-connect with you now. Your support is deeply appreciated. It is amazing that we should have connected through the same lovely editor 🙂
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Nicely done!
Sent from my iPhone
>
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Wow!
You continue to inspire me.
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That was brutal!
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That’s a magnificent story. Thank you for telling it.
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And thank you for the nice comment
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Oh Peter this was absolutely the best thing I have read in ages. Delightful! In spite of the sorrow and regret discovered by our husband, Frank’s very presence made me happy and giggly. Perhaps his charms continued into the here after.
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Thank you very much. I suspect his charm could still work magic beyond the grave as you wisely point out 🙂
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No escape in death I suppose. Perhaps you should rewrite this one to reflect how he met with that unfortunate car accident.
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So much in such a short piece. And that last paragraph, should have seen it coming but really wow, way to kick a guy while he’s down.
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Wow. Wow. Wow. I think this is your best piece yet. Like others said…in such a short piece I had all kinds of emotions. That takes true talent.
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Pingback: An Unfortunate Discovery by Peter Wells | Sue Vincent's Daily Echo
This is partly sad and partly humorous but so well written, Peter. 🙂 — Suzanne
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Thank you very much
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Wow! This is a wonderful story, and so well told. It is sad, but there’s a bit of humor–the comedy of life (or afterlife), I suppose.
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Thank you for our lovely comment 🙂
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You are quite welcome.
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Oh I say Ducky, the dear lady will pass on and meet them both one day and I wonder who will rock with mirth then!! Great story. Hugs x
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Brilliant, had me riveted from the start 👏
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Thank you very much
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Fabulous! Ten stars! It just kept throwing curve balls!
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Very nice comment Thank you 🙂
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I’m tempted to insert an expletive before the word ‘clever’, but decorum rules. Clever and a thoroughly enjoyable read.
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Wow…powerful writing
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