By Marjorie Perry
Last night I dreamt Luke and I were still together, still husband and wife. He was his original self, the version I loved and adored. That version I committed to. He was funny and kind and playful. His face invoked no fear.
In the dream, I see him and that easy closeness is there. That silent familiarity grown by sharing someone else's presence across years of life. Eating the same food, sharing the same rooms, daily consciousness intertwined through persistent proximity. That other person is such a constant in the day that you and they might be extensions of one another. So much is sensed of the other person that language can be excessive, superfluous. A lifted eyebrow and I can sense the sentiment.
Luke’s playfulness was one of his traits that really hooked me. There were little games that we played with one another, as giddy as children, laughter rushing through our teeth. I’d hear Luke walking down the hallway, footsteps on the wood panels, and I’d crouch behind a corner.
I’d hear his approach and freeze my lungs full of air, willing myself to stay totally still, to not give away my hiding place. Luke would turn the corner and I’d lunge, he’d be caught off guard.
Then his shoulders collapse into laughter, he vows to get me back next time, a promise I cherish like others. Our life together had games. We played, happy as kids. We were always laughing. Sometimes.
Or, another image that’s not dissipated— I’m chasing Luke around a round wooden table. We’d been goofing around, some context I cannot recall, but somehow, for some reason unremembered, I am chasing Luke round and round. He pumps his arms comically, in tight loops; he is stiff and leaning forwards from the waist. It’s Charlie Chaplin. Acting clownish, slapstick silly, to get a rise from your wife. That’s love, right? This is loving, yeah?
My breath is short from chasing you around; we really committed to our games, to our play. It was just you and I there. In this moment, alone, together, two adults caught up in a game of tag. I’m laughing so hard my vision is blurred. But I see you, running around the table, continually out of reach. You were always more fit than I, more made of muscle, raised as an athlete.
For all the things I loved of you, that first version of you, the endearing (and ensnaring) version of you— I loved the playfulness.
Now, years on, I might allow myself to remember this. But I cannot say I feel happy, at this memory that looks so strikingly like happiness. The later years, the memories that came later, they weighed all these good things down, put dust and debris on top of times that were joyful. The hard times, the scary times, they cleared the cache. They injected fear.
Threads of memory stream into one another, I am with Luke here or there. We are somewhere together. We are playing a game, he is playful and happy again. He rolls himself up tightly in a blanket on the bed, his head popping out— “look, I’m a hot dog!” I’m guffawing and my laughs ricochet around the ceiling beams.
Luke and I, we are riding bikes on vacation. It's sunny and we roll down the long sidewalk that edges the beach. We are on a train now, watching the mountains go by. We snake through the valleys. When I have a surgery, you help trim my toenails. I carried you through grief. I carried your father's ashes. We play board games with my parents. I cut your mother’s hair. We go on family vacations. We are family.
Luke and I, we are at the train station. Angry again, he lobs my suitcase down the steps. Travelers are rushing by, giving me a sidelong glance, maybe a wince of pity. My face is hot and I’m chasing after my suitcase.
We are at home now, what was it that made you so angry, again? Zero recollection. We are twenty stories up, you hold my purse out the window; my computer in there, all my files. Please don’t.
Luke and I, we are on a road trip, there is a vast field of sunflowers. Never saw so many sunflowers; so this is where they grow best. The sun is warm and orange, the land unfurling along under rental car tires. Later we are walking around the waterfall, the sky so tall and the ground so flat, it stretches your eyes, the angles of the earth.
On another day, you are so angry that you use a hammer to break down the bathroom door. I stand there shaking and naked, crying and confused. I’ll be the one to fix the door, replace the splintered door frame.
We are on our honeymoon. The sunset over the water stretches color across the surface, pinks and purples. Later in the car you are so angry. Can't remember why. I get a bruise on my left elbow. You poured cereal in my hair and spit in my face.
Luke and I, we are playing a game. I’m chasing him around a wooden table, some afternoon sunlight coming in. I’m laughing so hard I’m out of breath, but trying to sprint in tight steps around the table, tears edging my eyelids, it’s all too funny. But I see you, the comical expression you’ve put on for me. You are running around the table, I’m chasing you. You are continually out of reach.
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