“Frames” by Damon DePaolis

The heel of his boots fell gently upon the cold oak floor as he entered. Chilled by the fall air, the floor carried the echo of his deliberate footsteps through the hollow room. The sound of his steps parted around the sole object between those four walls: a Victorian bed frame of minimal aesthetic pretense, partially covered along three sides by a transparent, white canopy. As he crossed the room, the delicate foliation of pure white sheets seemed to gradually, but imperceptibly, divine an angelic figure donning a thin gown. Her hair, light blonde. Hands, fragile. Her veins filled with a life painfully absent in her pale blue eyes.

Upon approaching, he felt her slipping away.

At the moment her eyes fell upon him, her lips became enlivened. She smiled a soft half-smile. Slowly, she turned her head toward the single open window across the room as he sat at her feet on the bed’s edge.

The leaves had begun to change colors; drying and falling as they do when the cold seasons begin to make their home. Outside the pane hung an old branch filled with decaying vibrance, itself belonging to a tree extending one story down to the slightly unkempt grass, and one story up to the dark, slate roof.

She had always told him that the changing leaves were the tree’s coat, like Joseph’s coat of many colors. She likened herself to Rebecca, and he to Jacob; the tree, their favorite son.

“When we lie under this tree and stare at the night sky,” she had said, “I believe it tells me the meaning of my dreams in the stars.”

She had named it the dreaming tree. Every night they would lie under its heavy branches, knowing only when all its colors had gone that the ground would be too cold to lay upon until spring. They would then move to the hearth inside, keeping each other warm through the cold winter nights.

       But seeing her lying there in that moment, frail, vulnerable, fleeting–he was flooded with regret. Thoughts of time lost and words, irretrievable; though all fell away in the wisps of cold air flowing through the open window. A single dried amber leaf entered the frame, falling to the floor.

“Do you believe in God?”

It was as disarming as it was direct. He said nothing. A dense silence arose.

“I’m dying,” she said softly, flatly; again direct.

He paused. “Is it blissful?”

“Like a dream.”

If only for a moment, he felt the weight of her innocence condense the earth.

“I want to dream” he said.

She wanted so desperately to be with her daughter again. She had laid her life down in the hope that they might be reunited. She never knew if she believed, but the opportunity was more than she would receive in this world. This would not end unless she tried; and she was willing to try.

“Do you believe in God?”

Silence again. He wanted to believe, but the suffering had been insurmountable. He could not understand how to reconcile the two, though not for lack of trying. That had been the true tragedy; because as the remaining love of his life lay there, expiring, she had only wanted that hope to guide her through. If there was a God, He was dead to him–he could not forgive him for this failure. He could not lie to her, not now–he could not rightfully claim any assurance. Looking away, he turned toward the window which fixed her gaze.

“Do you remember when we were still innocent? When we used to look up at the stars under that tree?”

He had remembered. He could never forget.

“The dreaming tree,” she said, smiling, “that’s what we used to call it.”

“Used to”. Those words filled his eyes. They both knew she was already gone, merely waiting for her voice to be pulled along with her. He forced himself to continue staring ahead.

“I’m dreaming, darling.”

He turned toward her, though she did not return to him.  His fingers trembled, his throat closed.

“I love you. I always will”.

She turned to him and smiled faintly once again. She looked up for a moment, then closed her eyes.

“I love you,” she replied, “forever”.  And with that, she slipped into eternity.

Standing under the tree with a lit cigarette between his still-trembling, gloved fingertips he looked up, hoping to see her rising into the clear blue autumn sky. But as beautiful and pure as it was, even the sky had lost its vibrance. The life drained from the day, and he snuffed the ashen paper beneath his sole. His condensed breath replaced the smoke as he lifted his black collar to cover the nape of his neck. Taking a few steps forward, he shoved his hands into the warmth of his pockets–his weary eyes taking only a short time to gaze upon the now empty frame of the place they had once, together, called home. There was nothing here for him now, and he became nothing.