It was the most wonderfully heartbreaking thing.
He held my hand.
I took it gracefully, politely, but most of all, insincerely. I was screaming inside, screaming every single word I wanted to say. Each one was built up perfectly within me, and yet my expression remained indifferent. Not a single word could pass my lips.
"Grace," he said with no personal attachment, as though the word was insignificant.
Suddenly I was crying.
This triggered my overwhelming thoughts to become real words. However, they were quiet words. He continued to overpower them with his own words, and half-hearted tone.
"I can't give you what you deserve."
or was it, I won't give you what you deserve?
At that, the quiet words grew louder and louder, until it was a battle cry. His hand fled free from mine, free as he now was. He was free and I was utterly broken.
I hated him. He knew it. I spoke vindictively, harsh and as cold as the February air that surrounded Central Park.
"There's something romantic about snowfall" I remembered saying to Stephen, as we walked through Central Park, that previous winter.
"It's beautiful, and calming. Despite the cold, snowfall reminds me of warmth" I added.
He laughed wholesomely, pressing his lips against the rim of the mug he held gently.
Gently. I remembered.
Kind of how he used to hold me.
I remember the fragility of his words when he turned to me and said
"Grace," as though enveloped in that one word was so much emotion, and promise. He continued:
"You've said the same thing about the sunshine in the summertime, flowers in the spring, and the leaves in the fall."
I buried my head in his sweater, blushing furiously.
It was true, many seasons had certainly passed. Two years of walking through Central Park every Sunday morning, talking about everything that surrounded us.
"I love you."
Words had never sounded so sweet.
I wanted to write those words down, and show him. Because come today I wasn't sure he remembered saying them. Sometimes those words, that day feels like nothing more than a figment of my imagination.
Standing there beneath his shadow today, I wish it were, I now realize how meaningless it all was.
"I love her, Grace, she makes me happy"
I then knew instantly why I had recalled that one frosty February morning to vividly: it was the last moment that I could remember feeling any sort of happiness when we were together.
"Goodbye Stephen, I'll always love you," I almost cried.
But instead:
"Goodbye, Stephen" Calmly, and filled with composure, I dried my tears.
I lifted myself from the bench. I noted the surroundings: Beaming sunshine, bare trees, just how I remembered it.
I left every ounce of hope for us to die in Central Park.
That following Sunday, and every other Sunday after, I walk through Central Park alone. I hope that someday I find Stephen doing the same. But I never do.
I exit and walk past the coffee shop where she works, sometimes I even go inside and wonder if she knows who I am. When I do, I recall every precious Sunday morning Stephen and I would spend together. I recall bitterly when he would meet me, always holding that mug of coffee so gently in his hands.
How could I have been so blind?
I suddenly saw wintertime in a whole new perspective, a warm arrival never left so cold.
)
