Leaving a Life Behind
by little cat feet

Rated PG

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Feedback: no, but thank you very much anyway

Kudos to my beta Goddess

Summary: A few moments of confusion and fear before
it all falls away.



Leaving a Life Behind
by little cat feet


So many years I've done what I have done; eventually it all 
erupts in your face.  Your countenance changes, and all at once 
the look of hope that sustained you (and her, mustn't forget her) 
for so long transforms to one of weariness, of misery, and of 
surrender.

Is it enough, then, to simply cling to one another?  We do it,
out of frustration and fear, as well as complicated love.  But
there is no one else now.  

Will we ever see those others that
we still love again?  Will they remember us--a marker in a 
cemetery somewhere, perhaps, with our names, dates of birth,
and the presumed date of our mutual death?  White roses once
a year on the anniversary, a multitude of tears shed at first
(at least for one of us) and then tapering off into a trickle,
until at last the flow is nothing more than a drop or two, 
shed at an unexpected memory.

Will we be together there, in their minds at least?  Empty
caskets, a few souvenirs of our useless lives, and then
ashes to ashes and dust to dust.  Nothing but a granite
marker to show the battles we fought and lost, the hopes
we held that were ripped away from us, the friendship that
grew into love that matured into a passion so deep it frightened
us both.

And now, sitting here in the dark together, bravely trying to
plan for the future (although neither of us knows if there
will even be a future, and certainly we are assured it won't
last many years) I reach for her hand.  It is cold, and I
will warm it between my two, as I have done so many times 
before.

Such a normal action.  If we left the room, I would put
my hand at her back and gently guide her through the door.
Habits.  Die hard.  

Do we continue?



********************
The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

--Carl Sandburg
********************