Homecoming Shadows

Chapter Eighteen: Asheville Elegy

Ruby
now

I waited until noon. Until the shadows were smallest. Until the sun, defiantly high in the sky, drove away the last remains of morning fog. Just as you liked it. I wore my favourite black dress, carefully chosen for this solemn occasion. It seems fitting, the black fabric against the pallid Asheville sky. I found solace in the darkness today. Black matches with despair, doesn't it?

Mascara lightly graced my lashes, framing eyes now more accustomed to tear-stained pillows than cheerful smiles. On my lips, a touch of pale lipstick. Fair, like your favourite shade. A small tribute to you. All of this, preparing to look my best for you. But why? Are the dead privy to our laments? Can you see me struggling?

I skew my gaze to the rear-view mirror. The reflection that stares back is unfamiliar. Heavy bags under eyes that are dull, bereft of life's spark. Strands of hair, previously coal bright and full of vigour, now rest pale and lifeless against my scalp. A grimace replaces the usual warm smile. If only you could see me now. You wouldn't recognize this woman. I guess it's fitting - we're in the city of our blooming love and asphyxiating demise.

Strengthening my resolve, I step out of the car. The wind carries a morose whistle through the desolate trees. Their leaves, prematurely crunching underfoot, engage in a melancholic dance as they whirled in the icy gusts. It's spring in Asheville, yet it feels like perished autumn. The landscape mirrors my own grim canvas - desolate trees, devoid of their vitality.

The cemetery. It's an eerie ical silence, broken only by the occasional sob or whimper. Rare stone-faced visitors, pacing with their heads bowed in respect and hearts sunk in sorrow, visit to pass their condolences to their lost ones. Respecting their privacy, I avert my gaze.

It should have been easy to find your grave. I followed the familiar path that has been etched into my memory.

Each step was heavy laden. Yet, an unfathomable fact gnawed at my understanding - I failed to find your grave.

Was this another cruel trick of fate? A mockery of my sadness? Or perhaps an illusion brought into existence by my exhausted mind? I'm lost in this sea of tombstones, the written epitaphs seeming like coded messages.

The thirteen years old scene plays back in my mind. Your funeral. It seemed like a macabre gathering of people clad in black, their condolences echoing hollow in my empty heart.

Half of the town was there. The closed empty casket sat like a memento of all my unfulfilled dreams, a crude reminder of all memories that couldn't be made. Shouldn't that day be engraved as the worst day of my life?

But then again, the day of your unexplained disappearance was much worse. It was like waking up to a cruel dream. As if the very essence of life had been snatched away from me. I probed into every possible explanation. What had happened? Did you just walk away? Or were you taken away?

Lost in my thoughts, I'm left in this rigid labyrinth of graves, trying to find one the epitaph of which is engraved in my heart: 'Non ducor, duco'.

I hardly regret anything in this life. In this endlessly spiraling string of random occurrences that we have no control over – why should I harbor regrets? If anything, regrets are useless burdens, bleeding you out slowly, drop by drop. Yet, while stipulating the futility of regrets, I still find one hovering in the recesses of my mind. A lingering guilt, a wound still fresh, a point of no return.

This regret is deeply interlaced with an old classroom of mine - a hub of chaos, a symphony of youthful clamor, contradicting opinions and scattered notes. The constant chatter, the scribble of pens, the hushed whispers and those piercing giggles – they all create their melody. Yet amidst this comforting pandemonium, I found tranquility, a profound peace, every time I found those familiar wolf grey eyes staring at me.

I regretted not telling you how much I loved those stolen, fleeting moments. I loved how my heart skipped a beat every time I looked up to find you already there, watching over me. You, standing at the edge of a horizon that I was too afraid to cross. Those unexpected smiles exchanged in lingering silence meant more to me than the weight of one-sided confessions. I regretted my silence, my awkward smile, and my unfathomable fear of baring my heart.

I yearn for those times when everything was so simple, so pure, and you, Miles, were just a gaze away.

This is a regret I hold close, a secret, nuzzled in the chambers of my heart.

Do I regret not telling you how much those moments meant to me? Yes, dearly. People don't often know about this regret - no one perhaps ever will. It's a narrative woven into the mystery of my being.

...

The town had changed, of course. Asheville had been sucked into the voracious corporate machine. The old tire factory near the river had been repurposed into a multi-storied hospital. The towering chimney no longer belched out smoke; instead, it pointed accusingly at the blue emptiness of the sky.

I parked my car in the hospital parking lot and wrestled against the cold wind to unlock the entrance door. The chill was a constant reminder of my grandmother's absence. Granny Aretha, as lively and humorous as I remembered her, had spent her last few months here, in the care of this desolate place.

The woman at the reception desk greeted me with an overly polite smile. "You here for Aretha Smith's things, dear?"

My beloved grandmother, the light of my troubled adolescence, was now reduced to a case of personal belongings. It felt wrong to collect her things from this sterile place, void of the laughter and warmth she carried with her. But times had changed, and so had I.

She had been part of the very fabric of this town, and I had become an unwilling strand in that fabric when my parents had decided that tearing themselves apart in divorce was more important than raising their child. That's how I ended up in Asheville, finishing my last year of school here. Frustration quenched, I collected my grandmother's things and headed for the door.

Lost, I wandered through the maze of hallways. I almost wanted to get lost, to succumb to the maze, but then a figure appeared down the corridor. A tall, blonde woman in a white coat. I read her badge before I asked directions. Adela Adams. She gave me a sweet smile and pointed down the hallway.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw. From a side corridor, a figure darted out, snatching her away. My heart pounded. I darted after them, worried, confused, but then... the sounds. Low, muffled, but unmistakable. They were coming from underneath the staircase.

Curiosity piqued, I stole a glance. That's when I saw her... Daria Wilson. My old acquaintance. The fiery red hair, the bold clothes, it was undoubtedly her. She was entwined with this Adela, their lips locked, their bodies intertwined. I stood frozen in shock.

A ringing phone shattered the moment.

"Hold on, it's my husband," Adela giggled, her voice a strange mix of guilt and exhilaration.

My heart sank. This wasn't my world, not anymore. This town, the people in it, their secrets, I was a stranger among them.

I disconnected instantly, turning my back on the scene. My grandmother's box felt heavy in my hands, her life relegated to a few mementos. My car appeared ahead, a beacon of familiarity in this city of unknowns.

The drive to my old house was quiet. The weight of the box, the scene of Daria and Adela, the image of my grandmother... The ghosts of Asheville were pressing down on me. But this was my story, my reality. A woman returning to her past, wrestling with ghosts, her heart clinging to memories and learning to let go.