The Bodyguard ✔

Chapter Fifty-Eight

As I enter the church, my boots resonate through the space. However remarkably build, it remains just as could inside. Yet I'm grateful for the guardianship. The winds outside stand no chance against the immense walls of this edifice.

I walk to a row of benches, somewhat in the middle of the church. I let down my head as I'm seated, prepared to be submerged in thought. Never have I been a religious person. Nevertheless, even I feel small in a place like this. The church's atmosphere reaches my mind space, and for many moments, I let my mind peacefully wander.

I often think about my life. Sometimes I think about the past; how lucky I've been to make it to Europe in one piece. I think about the horrible things that had happened, to me and others; but also the beautiful. Every once in awhile, I think of my future.

Will I ever be safe? Where should I build a life? What kind of a person do I want to be?

At times I ask myself if I'll ever even be a whole person again.

In a distance behind me, I notice small steps being taken to the front of the church. An elderly lady, dressed in black fur, dark gloves and boots treads the middle passage. A couple rows to my front, she bows her head respectfully to the anterior of the church before sitting down.

Out of the protection of her heavy garments, she reveals a picture of a man. Carefully, as not to damage the precious possession, she brings the picture to her lips. She breaths "Mon chéri", whereupon pressing the picture to her chest and lowering her head, in an empty embrace.

I engulf her tristesse, as a warm tear slithers over my porcelain cold cheek.

I grieve with this woman, although I do not know her, because her pain is my acquaintance.

In silence, I rise and leave her behind, to let her be with her bittersweet memories. I pause briefly before going outside, to put on my gloves. Even though I know what coldness awaits me outside, still it shocks my body. The serenity of church briskly departs my soul and I am left again, alone, to face fierceness.

I mostly think of my life as it is now, though; in its present day.

I struggle my way through the field of persistent stones. I squint my eyes, in the effort to see where I'm going.

I'm thankful for whom I have, without retaining whom I lost.

I halt at a particularly striking grave stone. This one isn't as worn down as most of the others, apart from the occasional sticks and lifeless leafs that stain his grave. On my knees, I do my best to remove them. Remarkably enough, his gravestone returns some of my warmth, strategically shielding me from icy winds.

There is always something to be thankful for. If not for what I have now, then for what I had the privilege to have had.

I remove a glove and touch his icecold engraved name with my fingertips. Frank J. Reinhardt. Because life is precious and temporary, never knowing which day will be the last. I am merely a witness; a visitor. I retract my hand, now red with cold.

I wonder what Frank and I would have become, if we had met under different circumstances. Would he notice me at a party? Would he have approached me then? I chuckle softly in my scarf, imagining the silly scene. Frank doesn't really do party's.

I bring my fingertips to my lips, press a kiss on them, and carry it to his name. Goodbye forever, Frank J. Reinhardt. A couple of tears unwillingly escape my eyes.

At a distance, I watch a man lay a bouquet of white daffodils at a grave. It's a pity those flowers won't stand a single night in this cold.

I rise, tighten my winter coat, and leave.

I inevitably reach the man with daffodils. He's completely captivated by the gravestone before which he stands. Not even the robust winds seem to bother him, as he stands idle, stationary like a statue. I pass the man in silence, allowing myself merely a modest glance at the grave stone.

With an invisible dagger in my heart I read her name.

I pass more grave stones then I can count, before finally reaching the church once more. Without going back inside, I go around the massive building, to its front. It has begun snowing. White, fluffy flakes whirl from the sky, down to the pavement's surface. A black car, parked in the street, is increasingly being covered by the white substance. I walk towards it and, to my surprise, find it unlocked. Finding the keys still inside the car, I take place in the driver's seat. In a determined effort to warm myself up, I start the engine and enable the heating system.

I rest the back of my head to the seat's head restraint, while the snowfall outside progressively intensifies. It made me notice the man only when he was already at the car. Escaping the impending blizzard, he takes place in the passenger's seat, shaking the car under his weight.

Our eyes interlock.

We search for the other, beneath the surface of what is visible. He only asks if I'm going to drive.

I turn on the car's headlights and windscreen wipers.

I nod. "Oui."

With caution, I drive onto the street and past the graveyard, heading for the main road.

I don't look back.

Goodbye forever,

Giselle R. Paques.