Tears, it seemed, had always been my silent companions in this life. From the tender age of seven, when my own mother faded into memory, to this somber funeral, they had been my constant, unwelcome company. Now, I stood before her, my stepmother, lying still in the polished casket. Her hands, usually so busy, were cold, clasped over a faded floral dress. Her eyes, once sharp and critical, now stared blankly at the abyss, as if watching the final curtain fall on the bleak play that had been her life. The air in the funeral parlor was thick with the scent of lilies and stale grief, a heavy blanket that pressed down on everyone.
Beside me, Lisa, my younger sister, sat slumped on the plush velvet carpet, a small, lost figure. She was in a trance, perhaps, or simply overwhelmed, tear droplets long dried on her face, leaving faint, salty trails. It was one of the saddest times I'd seen her since she was five and first walked into our home, a shy, wide-eyed girl.
"Ally, she's not gone forever, is she?" Lisa's voice was a thin, reedy whisper, her gaze wild, a crazy, haunted look in her eyes. Doctor Morris, a kind, weary man, stood discreetly nearby, a silent sentinel. He had attended the funeral with us, a precaution in case Lisa's episodes of distress flared up again, ready to help without drawing undue attention. Lisa's haunted eyes, wide and searching, fixed on my face, pleading for answers I couldn't possibly provide. To offer false hope would be a cruelty I couldn't bear. At that point, tears began to stream down my own face, a silent, automatic response. I didn't even feel them, didn't feel anything. I was like a blank book, its covers never opened, its pages untouched. I had never truly known a mother's love, not in the way stories described it. So how was I supposed to know how to feel, how to grieve for a woman who had been more of a duty than a parent?
One month later...
The silence in the house was a living thing, expanding with each passing day. It had been a month since the funeral, a month of coming back to an empty place every night. Things lay exactly where they were left, untouched, mirroring the stillness in my own life. Loneliness, a familiar ache, had reached its height, settling deep in my bones. I'd spent countless evenings staring at the dust motes dancing in the fading light, contemplating my next move. It seemed I had only three options, each a desperate reach for connection: one, I could get a dog, a furry companion to fill the quiet rooms; two, I could adopt a child, a tiny life to pour all my untapped affection into; or three, I could find THE ONE—you know, him.
So, on a random Friday afternoon, the city's hum a distant murmur below, I leaned on my balcony railing, gazing out at the endless expanse of rooftops. A sudden, almost reckless decision bloomed in my chest. Tomorrow, I would come home with a guy. I didn't care how or where I would find him, but I would. Life, I had seen firsthand, was fleeting, a fragile thread. I'd felt its speed, its terrifying finality, when I held her hand for the very last time.
I considered myself a romantic, or at least, I thought I was. Yet, despite this inner yearning, I'd somehow managed to bypass all the "firsts" that defined a romance novel: the first kiss, the first date, the first Valentine's Day, even the first real fight. And as for the first… ahem… well, that remained a mystery too. Here I was, thirty-five and six months, at what felt like the late ages of life, having spent all my years shackled by various responsibilities. Rewarding as they had been, they now felt irrelevant to my aching, lonely heart.
I decided it was time to take a step forward. The first step, logically, was my wardrobe. I stared at the rows of baggy clothes, the muted colors, the practical fabrics. A wave of self-deprecating humor washed over me. I realized, with a sigh, that this collection of shapeless garments had single-handedly repelled any potential love interest. If my clothes weren't doing the job, my perpetually messy, unstyled hair would surely finish it.
"Ahhhhhhh..." I groaned, running a hand through my hair. "What am I supposed to do?"
There was only one source of information, of course. My younger sister, Lisa. Three minutes later, I was on the phone with her, and she was practically vibrating with excitement at the mention of my decision.
"Do you know how long I was waiting for this?" Lisa shrieked through the phone, her voice tinny but undeniably thrilled. "You, Allison, asking for my undeniable powers as a love guru!"
"If this is all you're going to say, I'm going to cut the call and forget all about this," I warned, trying to sound stern, though a small smile tugged at my lips.
"Girl, please! Leave me be happy for my forty-year-old big sis expressing her first romantic thoughts!" she retorted, completely ignoring my threat. "And if you were to succeed in this game called LOVE, you need me."
"You know you're selling a big game," I mumbled, half-amused, half-exasperated.
"Cause I know I can!" she declared with unwavering confidence. "Even if I usually fail at everything else."
"What is the big deal, anyhow? I'm quitting on it," I sighed, already feeling the familiar pull of retreat.
"You can't do that, Allison! You have to submit to your carnal needs!" Her voice rose in mock horror.
"If someone were to see this, they'd think you are one of the most precarious of all people," I said, shaking my head.
"Yes, but I shall, thy stay, a precarious person whose helping a damsel in distress!" she announced dramatically. "I shall put my honor on the line and help you find the one that will make your heart exercise!"
"Hahaha," I laughed, a genuine, hearty sound that felt foreign after so long. "Have you been watching those English plays again?"
"Yeah, maybe, but that's beside the point!"
"No, I'm not asking you anything today. BYE!" I cut the call, still chuckling.
After hanging up, I realized she had called me forty, but in reality, I was thirty-five and six months. And it wasn't truly the first time I'd had something to do with love. I had loved him, once. The one and only. Though many would call it puppy love, a forgettable crush, to me, he was my sunshine, always. He made it seem like good weather just by being near. The memory of his walk, even now, brought a soft, wistful smile to my face. It was an incredibly vivid memory, so clear that if I closed my eyes, I could see it: an easygoing lope, nice and steady. Not too fast and not too slow, fast enough to get somewhere, but not too fast to miss anything. Bouncy, alert, resolute, without any concern and without vanity. A walk that both belonged to and was remote from everything around him. For a mere child, it was the thing that most fascinated me, that, and his eyes.
I shook my head, trying to dislodge the past. I should not hold on to it. Instead, I should be grateful for the good things that were happening, like how Lisa had been better, even though she didn't want me to visit. I hoped she was truly fine. It was late evening. I put on my running shoes, the familiar worn fabric a comfort, and went to get a good jog, the cool air a welcome balm on my face.