Graveside
Most individuals greet Christmas Eve with anticipation and hopeful expectations for the future. Most choose to congregate in warm environments, both physically and emotionally. Cares are forgotten or momentarily placed aside. For a instant, albeit brief, there is peace in the stillness of the night.
On Christmas Eve, there is no such tranquility in the heart of Jim Gordon. He can still remember her lifeless body in his arms. The muffled sounds of his own grief still echoes in his mind. The maniacal laughter still rings in his ears. Encompassing it all is the weight of guilt. He tries not to dwell on the hypotheticals. As the sky darkens, his will weakens. What if they had left? Did his own stubbornness cost Sarah her life? What did he miss along the way? What if he'd gotten there sooner? How happy would they be now?
Rows of uniform headstones erupt from a blanket of snow eight inches deep. The weather has let up. As he makes the trek out to Sarah's grave, the air is clear. Delicate layers of white crunch and compress under his feet as he trudges along. The bottom of his coat drags along the top, soaking through. He doesn't care. He'd wade through hell and high water to be with her.
The top of her headstone has accumulated some snow as well. With a single wipe of his hand, he clears it away. He puts the flowers down to the side so that both hands are free. With only the gloves to protect against the cold, he begins to dig. He continues to dig until the full epitaph is in view. With an uncharacteristic amount of gentleness, he moves the flowers. They're all he can offer her now.
The lines around his eyes are hard. They betray none of the heartache that swells within.
Sarah Essen Gordon. Gone. But not forgotten.
"Merry Christmas, baby."
On Christmas Eve, there is no such tranquility in the heart of Jim Gordon. He can still remember her lifeless body in his arms. The muffled sounds of his own grief still echoes in his mind. The maniacal laughter still rings in his ears. Encompassing it all is the weight of guilt. He tries not to dwell on the hypotheticals. As the sky darkens, his will weakens. What if they had left? Did his own stubbornness cost Sarah her life? What did he miss along the way? What if he'd gotten there sooner? How happy would they be now?
Rows of uniform headstones erupt from a blanket of snow eight inches deep. The weather has let up. As he makes the trek out to Sarah's grave, the air is clear. Delicate layers of white crunch and compress under his feet as he trudges along. The bottom of his coat drags along the top, soaking through. He doesn't care. He'd wade through hell and high water to be with her.
The top of her headstone has accumulated some snow as well. With a single wipe of his hand, he clears it away. He puts the flowers down to the side so that both hands are free. With only the gloves to protect against the cold, he begins to dig. He continues to dig until the full epitaph is in view. With an uncharacteristic amount of gentleness, he moves the flowers. They're all he can offer her now.
The lines around his eyes are hard. They betray none of the heartache that swells within.
Sarah Essen Gordon. Gone. But not forgotten.
"Merry Christmas, baby."