Picturesque

Picturesque

by Izabela Firlej

"I’m scared.” I feel his breath on my ear as he whispers to me. He reaches for my hand.

His hand is strong, bigger than mine, not surprisingly calloused from the years of work he’s done in his life.

“It’ll be okay,” I whisper back, nodding my head at him. Observing his face, I notice the familiar stubble, a constant five o’clock shadow on his strong jaw. His red cheeks remind me of home, of winter, letting me drift back there, letting my mind rest. Thick, bushy eyebrows that frame his face like a bow on a gift. His eyes, amber flames flicking at my heart. Doe eyes, kind and unassuming. My fingers make circles on the back of his hand.

I look around the room. It’s drab, I assume not to give anyone here any kind of hope. The walls are a bluish grey, peeling at the bottom, revealing a beige color you’d see in a post-apocalyptic movie. I look to my left at the window, the yellow wheat waving back and forth, as if it were swaying goodbye. The sky is clear except for a couple of clouds.

Suddenly I feel his hand shaking. My free hand reaches to stop him. I look up. He’s facing away, looking out at the same fields. I wonder if we’re seeing the same thing.

“Hey,” I say, tugging at his arm. He looks at me, and his face has changed,

fallen. It’s red and wet, his strong features blurred by the tears coming like rain from his eyes.

“I can’t do it,” he whimpered. “I don’t think I can do it.” He’s breathing hard, not trying to stop, letting the tears flow, for once in his life letting himself cry.

“Come here.” I gesture for him to come to me. He kneels down to my level, looking at his shoes, his tears dripping on the tile floor.

“Of course you can do it,” I say to him, wrapping my hands around his neck, feeling the collar of his shirt, the hair on the back of his neck.

“Look at me,” I say, grabbing his cheeks, prickly and wet. “You have to do it.” I feel my cheeks itch with wet.

“What do I say to her?” his voice trembles.

“You tell her the truth,” I respond, my voice shaking. “Tell her how I was.” My lips begin to quiver. “Don’t let her remember me like this.” My vision blurs. He reaches for my face and wipes my tears. We’re looking right in each other’s eyes now. “Show her pictures. Never let her forget how much I loved her.”

“Excuse me,” a meek voice calls from the door. “It’s almost time.”

My husband stands up, wiping his tears. I chuckle. “No one can see him soft,” I think to myself. I wipe my own tears.

“Would you like to see your daughter?” the nurse asks. She’s wearing scrubs embellished with hearts.

“Yes, yes, of course.” The nurse steps out of the room, and in a matter of seconds she runs in with the same blonde hair I once had. She hops on top of me. I groan. Her dad reaches over. “It’s okay,” I say, holding onto her.

“Hi Mommy,” she says, smiling and bouncing around.

“Hi sweetie,” I say. I study her face. I don’t want to forget her. She has her father’s eyes, those same amber flames. She has my nose, strong and pointed. My ears, dainty.

“The nurse gave me a lollipop,” she says gleefully.

“Did she, honey?” I ask. She nods.

“What flavor?”

“Blue.” She giggles. I laugh.

“Blue, huh?” She sticks her tongue out, and, sure enough, blue. I brush her cheek with the back of my hand.

“Your hand is cold, Mommy.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, honey,” I say, smiling.

“It’s time,” the heart-covered nurse interrupts. My husband leans in. We hug. The three of us, how it’s meant to be but will never be again. He takes our daughter, and the nurse walks over.

“Do you mind if I look over at the window?” I ask.

“Of course.” The nurse gives me a grim smile. I look over at the window, then I feel a prick.

It looks so picturesque, almost fake.

Mountain | Oil Painting by Isabella Powell