For my final revised story I chose to use my first story about Grace and Sawyer, two lovers, divided by cancer and death. After talking to Jesse, and using my peer’s advice, I noted the changes that needed to be made included adding more detail to Sawyer’s character – and naming him. Readers also wanted more about Grace and her change while she was separated from Sawyer. And most importantly, they needed an ending not just where Grace dies, but an ending that tells how Sawyer lives on.

I created a few more paragraphs to emphasize these points, and I extended the ending to hear more about how Sawyer learns to cope with her gone. This was interesting to think about and try to write about because I personally have not experienced a love like theirs, nor the situation of losing that “other half” to cancer; prematurely. I didn’t want to “overact” the scene, but I also didn’t want to downplay it. I think the way I chose to close the story was a delicate balance of both.

Enjoy!

I flip the closed sign to open, and unlock the front door. It is only 5pm but it is already foggy. It’s a Thursday night, a few days after Christmas, and I don’t expect there to be many customers, but I begin setting up anyway.

Some time goes by. The scent of fresh lemon slices fill my nose. I notice a gleam off the silver blade. Headlights shine through the dirty bar windows and turn right into the lot. I turn the radio volume knob down, and continue slicing my lemons. The door jingles and in walks a young man. He wears his hat low, and his boots land heavily on the wooden floor. 

“How you doing tonight? What can I get ya?” I ask. He looks up at me with brown doe eyes and dimples and asks,

“Watcha got on tab?” He wants the first one I read. He takes his drink and grabs a seat away from the counter, next to the pool tables. Not 5 minutes goes by and more headlights fill the bar. A couple more young fellas enter the bar, a few with some lively country girls. They take their turns at my counter, while the others set up for a game of pool. A couple rounds in, 2 more single ladies walk in. The girl on the left shimmers with confidence and leads the girl on the right in a dark red flannel with her eyes down. This is a dynamic I see a lot.

They end up at the counter, pulling up the stools close to each other. The girl on the left orders drinks for them both, and the other girl looks around nervously. My backs to them I hear one say, 

“What if he’s here?” 

“Then you will ignore him and act like you are over him.” The rest of what is said is jumbled by the sounds of shaking drinks. I’ve never seen these two particular girls, but I see them almost every weekend. The newly single and the one who has never been quite able to settle down. 

The gentlemen playing pool, especially those who’ve come up for seconds and thirds, had begun to get quite rowdy. Seeing as they were the only group, forsay, in the bar, I let them continue on. The girls have since moved from their stools to watch the pool game. I too watch, with not much else to do. I message my wife to tell her the night had started strong, but I knew she was likely sleeping, as she so often was now. 

In came a few more men, making the total about 20 people. I had kept my eye on the 2 girls, curious as to how their night would play out. The confident one had certainly made her presence known, the other girl stayed sheepishly behind. Her gaze was kept mostly down at her phone, but a few times I caught her looking at the doe eyed boy who came in first. She stole glances at him for some time before he ever even realized she was there. 

I notice the time. It’s been almost 40 minutes since I have messaged my wife, with no response. She sleeps a lot now. I hope the dogs are keeping her company. My mind begins to wander to another life with my wife. A life in which she wasn’t sick, in which she could have continued to bring love to the children’s lives she worked with, and purpose to mine. Love between us was a long river running, and cancer had become a dam. 

It was nights like these I wish I could have stayed home with her, to be there to comfort her and hold her. I can’t afford not to work, and she insists I go every night. But what if- 

I am interrupted in my thoughts by a faint pull to reality. I noticed in the very top of my eyes, that the guy had noticed her. He removes his hat while he looks at her. The air between them is unmoving. And like a flash, she leaves her seat and her drink behind. Her friend notices she has left, makes eye contact with the young man, and pivots on her heel out the door.

There is something in the way they looked at each other. Something that feels like hope. Something that has just begun. The night is officially dark now, and the moon strains to be seen through the thick clouds. Most of the patrons have chosen to get themselves together to head back out into the town, though a couple still hang around. An older couple had entered the bar. They chatted with me while I washed cups, the steam from the faucet fogging my glasses. They talked about their life together, how they owned a hobby farm, and had been married for 31 years. My wife has hardly lived 31 years, I think. It’s hard for me to picture being with someone so long. Yet I know if I could do it with her, I would. 

It has reached the time where the parking lot is empty. I turn off the radio, and spin around the door sign. The fog has yet to lift, and the air pricks me with its cold. I message my wife to let her know I am on the way home. I know she is asleep, but I message her anyway. I lock the door behind me, and in the reflection of the door I see a truck nestled deeply into the lot, unseeable from inside. There are two figures next to each other, leaning against the hood. I walk to my car that is tucked along the same row. Through the fog I see the hat of the young man, and the red flannel of the quiet girl. Music plays from the stereo speaker, and the pair rocks back and forth in each other’s embrace. I start my car and leave them alone in the parking lot beneath a blanket of hidden stars.

On the drive home I think of my wedding. We got married at sunset. She had asked me that night about the most beautiful sunrise I had ever seen. I had wanted to answer, right now, even though the colors did not melt into the ocean like that one time on the beach in North Carolina, and they did not burn the leaves of the trees they were behind like early mornings in the woods with my Father, but tonight I married her. And that was the most beautiful night of my life. 

I think of the young couple in the parking lot. How my wife and I had, too, rekindled our love in a shitty old town bar. How we found each other again. All those years had gone by, and the sparkle had never left her eyes. I told her this. She said,

“You’re wrong. That sparkle came with you, and it left with you.” 

The dirt on the driveway plooms as I pull in. I’ve been meaning to repack it. I’ve been meaning to do a lot of things lately. From the bottom of the driveway the living room lights glow. The colors from the TV reflect in the windows. My love loves her television. 

I open the back door slowly. Quietly. Our two dachshunds, siblings, were quick to bark over slight sounds, and I always try to avoid them waking my wife. In the tight corridor of our mudroom, I smile. Pictures from our wedding fill the empty spaces, and I always take a second to look at them when I come home. Her eyes look at me through the glass frames, wild and sweet. I tiptoe down the hallway, and luckily the rug muffles the squeak of old wood. My wife lays on the couch, layered in blankets, with one dog between her legs, and one curled up to her chest. Their tails begin to wag, but they don’t get up. They usually get up. A pit of panic begins growing in my stomach. 

I fall to my knees next to the couch, and take my wife’s hand. It is skeletal, but it is warm. Tears sting at my eyes. Then I see her chest move.

“Grace, honey. I’m home.” I say weakly through my burning throat. Her eyelids flicker, and soon she is looking into me.

“Oh, Sawyer, I missed you,” she says delicately. Tiredly. Weakly. 

“It was a good night at the bar,” I tell her, as my tears become a smile. “Why don’t we go to bed, and I will tell you all of tonight’s stories.” I kiss her fragile hand, and raise myself from the floor. She pushes the blankets off herself. She is hollow. I give her my hands, and she uses them to lift herself. She falls into me, and I wrap my arm around her boney shoulders. Together we walk to the bedroom, to the bed we no longer share, one step at a time. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, and Grace in her recliner, I tell her the story of the young pair I left alone in the bar parking lot. This brings a light to her face.

“That was us,” she says. It wasn’t so long ago we were under the same stars. 

“I thought that too,” I assure her. She sighs tiredly. Years ago I would comb my fingers through her hair, but now I can only rub her back. 

“Tell me again what they looked like,” she asks. I tell her again about the boy’s dimples and the girl’s dark locks. My wife was a poet in her youth. She was a people watcher, and I had always loved how observant she was. She would have been able to describe them much more poetically, much more clearly, than I. To me, they were just faces. To her they were art. 

“I want to go back to the bar.” She says. My wife has been too sick to leave the house for many weeks now. Her immune system is too vulnerable, the doctor says. What does he know?

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, love..” I begin to say. But her eyes meet mine, and I know that this is her wish. I would do anything for her, because without her I am nothing. I nod my head. 

“Okay. We will go in the morning.” I say. She smiles, and it quickly turns into a coughing fit. I get up from the bed to rub her back, as spit and small traces of blood leak from her crimson lips. In the beginning, she would apologize for this. I begged her not to. 

“I will get you some tea,” I tell her. With a kiss on her forehead, and a pat to both dogs, I leave the bedroom. She thanks me softly as I leave. When I return, with a hot tea in my hands, she is fast asleep. I set it on the nightstand, and reach for my book. I don’t sleep well anymore. 

I think of our last Christmas together just days before. She had asked me in a painful voice,

“What are you supposed to get someone for the last time?” I tell her not to worry about getting me anything. Meanwhile I was asking myself the same question.

***

The morning sun shoots its beams through the blinds, directly into my eyes. I wake with a grunt. It is nearly noon, and my wife has turned the TV on. The enriching sound of the rainforest hits my ears. 

“You love your Nat Geo,” I tell her. She does, too. She hands me her cup of tea from last night. 

“I’m sorry I let it get cold.” I touch her cheek and smile. 

“I would make you a thousand teas until I got it just right.” I tell her. 

***

The stars have reappeared; the backdrop of the universe. The headlights create silhouettes of the trees as I pull into the bar lot. I do the usual swerve to avoid the potholes, real rim-wreckers, and park in the back of the lot. The farthest spot away from the town lights. Our bar was small, but it was ours. It had a top balcony, a real old metal sign, and windows all in the front. Grace and I had bought it from an old man who had run it out of business. 

“What the hell you two kids want with this old place?” He asked.

“To bring it back to life,” Grace told him. It was in this bar that I found you, she would say. It gave me life, and I plan on giving it one back. I’d give her that look, you know the one, and tell her “I didn’t give you life..” But she would always interrupt me. I couldn’t argue with her. I mean, I could- it just wasn’t worth it. 

Grace glowed with happiness in my front seat. She was bundled in blankets, with a warm winter hat. I shut the car off, after cranking the heat. 

“You let me know if you get cold.” She wouldn’t admit to it if she was. 

“Tell me about the first time you saw me,” she says flirtily. 

“Oh jeez..” I begin. “I don’t know how well I remember..” She gives me her delicate shoulder punch. We laugh, and I feel her love wash over me like silk.

“If I remember correctly,” I say with a chuckle, “I was at the post office. Carrying in a few packages for my mother. You were in line ahead of me. I got up behind you and thought `gosh this girl smells so nice.’” Grace outright laughs, and breaks into a mild cough.

“You creep.” she gets out. 

“I was looking at you, how the sun backdropped your face. You had the longest eyelashes I had ever seen. And I was stunned by you. I forgot how to breathe.” Grace puts her head down in humbleness, and her cheeks pull into a smile. The music on the radio changes. Suddenly it is slow and instrumental. I think of the young couple in the parking lot last night. How they swayed as one body, their connection unfaltering.

“Grace, would you like to dance with me?” 

She nods. Before I know it, I am exiting my door and walking to her side. I open the door for her, and some of her blankets slide off. I catch them, and give her a wink. She wraps her arms around my neck, and I raise her slowly from the seat. Some of her weight rests on the door, the rest on me. She is so light, like a butterfly. Beautiful, but not in the way a human should be. 

In the pale light of the moon and stars, I sway with Grace in my arms. She hums to the music, her head against my chest. 

“I remember thinking I should ask for your number,” I continued. “But I had never seen you before. I knew everyone in this town. How could I not know her? I thought to myself. She must be someone’s family from outta town” 

“And you were wrong, I wasn’t anyone.” Grace laughs.

“You were always someone. You were just waiting to be my someone.” I retort. Grace had moved to town for the summer, a job as a camp counselor. That summer we had a fling. Young love, some would call it. We kissed by firelight, held hands jumping off waterfalls, and found every possible way to say ‘I love you’ without ever saying the words. That August, she left. I begged her to stay. Her father wouldn’t allow it. Grace was shipped off to London that September, where she finished her schooling. She never totally lost her accent.

“I never stopped thinking about you while I was gone,” she breaks the silence, as if reading my thoughts, which sometimes I was convinced she did. 

“I was always planning, scheming, how to get back to this shitty town where the only redeeming thing was you.” I remember the heartache of that fall. Those first few months I felt empty. I felt myself slipping, dying, and falling with the autumn leaves. 

And then Grace graduated. She turned 21, and she booked the first flight back here. All the while, I had never let the image of her fade from my mind. But that first time I saw her again, in the old bar we own now, I didn’t recognize her. Her soul felt different, more caged and less wild. In the moment we made eye contact-

“My world stopped,” Grace says lightly. In harmony, we look at each other. Into each other. My world stopped too. I remember the feeling of knowing she was within arms reach. It was euphoric. In that moment I knew I would never want anyone else. Grace sighs, and I feel her knees begin to shake.

“I am tired,” she says weakly. Gently, I help her sit back down into the car. I realize how out of breath she is from standing, and I instantly regret not noticing her discomfort.  She reassures me that she is okay. I remain standing next to her, and I look up to the stars. If there is a God, I would really love to punch him, or at least have a stern talking to.

“I think I am ready to go,” her soft voice interrupts my anger. I snap back to this world, out of my bitter headspace. 

“Yes, love. We will go.” I go to my side of the car, and soon we are looking into the windows of the bar as the headlights pour in. The night we reunited in that bar, Grace had already been back in town for a week. I had been off doing odd jobs with my brothers, and had just come back to town that night. I had no clue she was there. I walked into the bar, dirty, and tired from work. I saw the back of her first. She was looking for me.

Shortly after leaving the parking lot, I feel Grace’s hand reaching for my own. I take her hand, and I think of a night in which we could have danced, forever. 

***

We lay in bed, there’s a fresh cup of hot tea on Grace’s nightstand. Most of the drive home, she had a recurring cough. I always kept tissues with me, but I almost didn’t have enough for her this time. By the time we pulled into the driveway, and I got her up into the house, she was wheezing. She insisted she was okay, but I began to feel terrible about bringing her out into the cold, windy night. I know she wouldn’t have been content with not going, but that somehow doesn’t ease any of my guilt. 

Grace is finally nestled into her chair, both dogs on each hip. I have my book open, but my eyes process nothing.I suddenly become aware of Grace’s shaking chest. I turn to look at her, and see tears in her eyes. 

“Grace, honey.. What-” 

“I am afraid.” She says between sniffles. The weight of what she has said crushes me. I feel small, meaningless, useless. I get up to wrap my arms tightly around her, and let her cry into my shoulder. 

Over and over, I tell her I am sorry. I tell her that she is the love of my life. I tell her I will never let her go. Her eyes are red and swollen, but they are undeniably beautiful. For weeks, the reality has struggled to set in. To know that my wife would not live to see our dogs grow old, or the bar become more successful, was like a dagger in the heart. Nothing in this world could be the same without her. Hell, I didn’t want to live without her.

“I will never leave you,” she says in a whisper. Soon, she has cried herself to sleep, and I continue to rub her back long past the point of sleep. Once the tidal waves have eased, I reach for my book. And I begin to read.

***

That night I dream of the sunset; of the sun’s splendorous gaze. The kind of soft orange that nips at the floral foreground, the kind of orange that bleeds red before sucking the warmth from the landscape. The kind of darkness that leaves you feeling lonely.

***

In the morning, when the sunshine scares off the darkness, I wake alone. My heart breaks open with enough force to rumble the entire earth. But no one hears me scream. No one feels me fall apart. 

***

I flip the closed sign to open, and enter the bar. I hadn’t stepped foot in the place in weeks. The floors were oddly clean, and for a second I thought I could smell Grace in the air. She was my world, and now that world – my purpose –  was gone. How could I possibly move on? I decided it was time to go back to work.

That night I watched a young couple on the dance floor, with faces eerily familiar. They wrapped themselves through each other in perfect rhythm, smiles from ear to ear. At the end of their dance, the young man tipped his hat. The old Edison lights on the ceiling caught his dimples. A glimmer on the girl’s finger as he raises it to his lips. A ring. 

This is how I will heal, I realize. A love like mine and Grace’s could never die; and I will find signs of it everywhere. 

Though I knew the day Grace would pass would come for months, nothing had truly prepared me for the feeling of loss within me, and nothing would have prepared me to learn how to live on. My love for her will never end, and now, neither will my grief.