He keeps his eyes on the treetops when they lower her into the ground. If he looks down he feels he may break, may simply shatter and crumble and be whisked away by the breeze. And he refuses to look up at the sky, that’s cliché and played out and he would puke at the sheer drama of it. He feels a hand on his shoulder, but really doesn’t feel it at all. He hears sobs all around him, but those aren’t real either. It is as if he has been plucked from his life, from his couch (half asleep, watching the game, eating chips and making a mess and not really caring too much), and dropped down into this somber scene. He feels detached and immersed at the same time, in the world but not of it. He thinks of boring days at work, spinning around in his chair until colors run, and then standing suddenly, feeling his feet, so firmly on the ground, and his head, light and wobbly. This is how he feels now. He runs a finger along the cuff of his suit and wishes he were dead.
Later, much later, when he’s buried her in his heart, he watches a different girl walk down the aisle. Michael gives him a sad, slow smile from his seat, and Jim remembers his words from years ago and decides not to give up, not ever. This new girl is not his girl, and never will be (he decides that too), but he loves her and he figures that’s enough. They lie in bed on their honeymoon and he sinks his face into her hair (long and blonde) and breaths slowly, closing his eyes to the unfairness of it all.
His only child moves out, and he leans against the door frame, watching her car turn the corner. His body feels electric, like he’s been hit with some unseen current, and he itches to run after her. When he turns away, his wife is standing with her back to him, grey in her hair and hands at her sides, and he feels upon himself all the emptiness of their home. They move into a smaller house, but it still feels large around them.
Sometimes he thinks about Pam, and the memories are faded and ragged around the edges, like photographs handled too often. He imagines the life they would have had, the people they would have become, and has to sit down, overcome and homesick for a place he’s never been. His grief has followed him all these years and he treats it like an old friend, inviting it in and making it comfortable. He half-awakens some nights, feeling in his heart all the spaces that won’t ever be filled.
When he dies, sitting in his favorite chair, a glass of milk beside him, he feels no pain. His eyes are heavy and then suddenly they are not, and he is standing in the parking lot of the paper company he worked for when he was a kid. He turns, feeling the youth of his body, his hair tickling his collar, and sees a house with a terrace. He strolls to it, his heart a hammer in his chest, and walks through the open front door. She is standing in the living room, paint brush almost touching white canvas, her hair auburn and unruly around her. She looks over her shoulder, blue smeared on her cheek, and grins at him. He thinks of her here, in this home, painting and drawing and waiting for him. She thinks of him, carrying her with him always, living his life as best he could. And when his eyes finally meet hers, he can’t do anything but smile.
