Imperfect

T W E N T Y - T W O - C L A R E N C E O T T O M

I watched as her hands quavered overpoweringly. I held onto them tightly, looking at her, wanting her to believe every word that I said, every word that I meant.

"How do you feel? Tell me... I will listen to every word, nothing less..."

"I want Lawrence back," she whimpered to me, gripping my body as she squeezed me tightly, in need of wanting someone to hold on her, to help her during her drastic time of loss and sadness, "if I could do anything that could bring him back right now, I would do it in a heartbeat—ANYTHING that it would be, I would do it."

She was in need for some help, but she didn't want any help—although she craved it in her mind very much—internally.

"Lawrence will never come back to you," I gripped onto her body, comforting her during her time of despondency, "he might come to you spiritually, but he won't be back to see you physically."

I wanted Abigale to cry, I wanted her to feel all of that pain that she was going through—I wanted her to listen to what I was telling her, hoping that she listens to it and understanding what I meant.

She needed to listen, she needed to heel; she can't keep crying and sniveling over her dead husband who was far gone and never coming back.

  A dead husband usually ends with a broken heart and resolves to another dead body—I don't want to see that happening to the girl that I loved.

  I wanted her to grow stronger from this. I wanted her to be the warrior that I know she could be.

Abigale looked at me; she looked straight into my eyes. I thought we were finally getting somewhere.

"There's a journal," she pointed to the left of her, a big, purple container—chest that sought by the living room window, "inside of my chest. I was writing for my daughter—wanting her to read every word of it, so that she doesn't dislike me for any reason... do you want to read it?"

It was a journal; the journal was written for her daughter's eyes, not my eyes—I didn't want to read any of the writing, because that would be evading Abigale's personal space.

"No," I told her, touching and rubbing her shoulders, "it's for your daughter—it's for her to read, not me..."

"Thank you," she clasped onto my body tightly, "thank you for being here and talking to me."

I rubbed her hair, feeling her tears run down the back of my shirt.

  I knew how this girl felt—my sister did the same thing to me a few years back, but I quickly got over it.

  I speedily learned that although a loved one has passed on, your life must continue on for them, making them proud, making them continue to watch us do great things in life—making a greater life for ourselves and for them...

After the hug was over, Abigale looked at me; she smiled—wiping the tears from her face.

"I still love you," she voiced to me, "I never stopped loving you."

My heart began thrashing quickly, being alarmed at her confirmation of our past love being rekindled again for the first time EVER.

"Can you love me like the old times?" she enquired me, unbuttoning her blouse, wiping her face until it was completely parched from tears.

"Are you sure that you want to do this, Abigale," I asked her, wanting her acquiescence, making sure that it was okay with her first, "I don't want to take advantage of you during your time of sadness."