A Ojos Cerrados

that empty bed.

when that empty bed appeared on the screen, the abuelitos face blank and drawn, i think an audible oh god escaped my tear filled lips.

from the moment he returned inside, after watching the rain fall onto the blooming heads of his plants, from this moment on - every picture was punctuated by pain. he found his wife sprawled on the floor of their bedroom. he did not react. he simply stared in silence. stoic in his buttoned cardigan and high belted trousers. he moved slowly to sit on the couch. he stared absently down at his boat shoes. surely he was seeing his whole world crumble from behind those square rimmed glasses.

the days to follow were captured by slow scenes, violins and closed eyes. it's as if he could not bear this new reality that existed without her presence, could not bear the suffering, and so he closed his eyes. closed them to the cold woman behind the desk at the crematory. closed them to the lawyer reading her will. closed them to that now empty rocking chair besides his on the front porch. he closed his eyes to the whole of the caribbean ocean, no piece of that giant sea good enough to hold her ashes. closed them to his granddaughter, as she too learned how to cope. and he closed his eyes to that perfectly made, completely empty, bed for two.

and i cried. in that theater i could not contain my tears. and i cry now. for the portrait of this grandfather whose wife was stolen by death. for the loss and emptiness that forever holds hands with Beauty and Life. and for all of those who are left alone in their old age. left to live in loneliness. left to attempt to fend off the growing helplessness all on their own.

you shall enter deeply into human suffering, and from there, speak. Henri Nouwen