Page 85 of Light As A Feather
Montrose stays behind. “Once she’s been washed and changed, will we be embalming her?”
“No. She’d prefer to decompose naturally.” Her words come back to me then, as if we just had the conversation yesterday.
“Don’t make me up to be something I’m not. Don’t put another fake smile on my face, so I’m forced to go into the afterlife with a mask. Put me in my casket as I am; I want to rot away to my rawest form. I’ve spent so much of my life being things that I’m not, hiding who I am, I’ve earned honesty in death.”
It might seem morbid to some, but Sol and I have discussed our deaths, and the preparation for it in great detail—where we’d be buried, how we wanted to be laid to rest, even how we’d spend our days once we’d finally crossed over to the other side of the veil for good. A small smile sneaks through the heartbreak. So many plans. “I’ve got it from here.”
“Sure.” Montrose lays a strip of thick velvet across her eyes, then gestures to all the supplies he’s set up. “If you need anything else, I’ll just be inside.”
“Thank you for this.”
He claps me on the shoulder, then shuts the heavy mausoleum doors behind him. The entombed silence of it swells around me, whispering of loneliness and despair. Instead of letting it smother me, I put on the playlist of songs that remind me of Sol. I made it years ago when I started to feel like I was losing pieces of her in the lull of our time apart. It’s kept me company on some of my bleakest days since.Fitting.
I take a deep breath, centering myself for what I’m about to do. This is an honor, a moment to treasure the woman I love. There was a time when one of my greatest fears was that I wouldn’t even know if or when she passed. While thecircumstances of her death were tragic—in such a way that I haven’t even allowed myself to process the extent of the sacrifice she made and why—I can at least be grateful for this.
Uncovering her, my gaze fixates on the stillness of her chest just a little too long while mine is stolen away like it means to give it back to her, but she remains unchanged, and I’m simply emptier without her.
Taking her hand in mine, I kiss her knuckles, sliding the draping fabric of her sleeve up her arm as I follow the movement with my lips, tracing the tattoo that runs up her forearm.
Swiping her chartreuse hair away from her face, I run a finger over her forehead in the way that soothed away her worries. As I lean over her, I take in her features. Frozen by death, I miss the way her brow would furrow and her eyes would always be searching mine, seeing every thought that crossed my mind before I’d even registered it. It had always been like that with us. She could read me like a book, and I studied her like one.
So many nights I would spend holding her against me, hiding her from the harshest parts of the world, the best I could. Despite how hard I tried to protect her, I still failed. I refuse to let her down this time, no matter how hard it is. I’ll care for her in this transition, in this next iteration of herself.
Lifting her toward me, I ease her sweater over her shoulders that are beginning to stiffen with rigor mortis. Next, I pull her skirt down her legs, then unlace her combat boots, then pull off her socks, taking my time to massage the arch of her foot and ankles. The familiarity of the routine is surprisingly calming.
Once she’s completely bare, I take the towel and soak it in soap and water before moving it gently over every inch of her skin, taking my time to scrub every imperfection—glass, blood drops, dirt, and grime—away from her beautiful body. Running the rag between her toes, something she would have squirmedaway from if she still had agency over her body, I finish cleansing her.
I could almost believe she’s just sleeping. She looks so serene.
The first tear that splatters against her cheek is jarring, but as they flood from my eyes, I allow myself to mourn all that we’ve lost. I’ll never get to take her to a castle or the Cologne Cathedral and watch her look up at it in awe as she archives every gloriously gothic detail of the architecture.
She spent so much of her life hiding, guarded away from a world that didn’t understand her and certainly didn’t treat her kindly. Loving someone like Sol means you’re well aware that things are unfair and cruel, but you can’t help but hope for something different, to fight to make things better, to show them all the kindness you can. I did try, but so many things were out of my control.
It’s not that I can’t accept her death, it’s that I thought I had so much more time before we came to this crossroads. I guess I’d hoped that when we both died, we’d at least have earned some grays.
But Sol had other plans. Like a spider, she wove her web with intent, and she lured Ivan away. So like her, it was, to have the final say in his plan for her.
I can’t accept that I’ve lost her, but I can accept that.
She looks stunning as I pull on her dress and clasp the fastening around her wrists. Leaving her barefoot feels right, so I don’t put her shoes back on before I hoist her into my arms and lower her down into the soft bed of the coffin. Her hair fans out across the pillow of black satin.
Taking the freeze-dried black lilies that I preserved for her—her favorite—I sprinkle the petals around her along the plush cushioning at her sides. I smile, knowing she would approve. She’s photo-ready, looking elegant and peaceful, just how she’dwant to be remembered. I wasn’t thrilled about the idea before, but now I’m relieved that I’ll have another recent photo of her.
Placing a soft kiss on her forehead, I say my goodbye to this version of her and close the lid of her casket.
Returning to the box, I start unloading the dozen—give or take a few—pillar candles, arranging them on the ledges beneath the small stained glass windows. One by one, I light them. I lower the music and simply exist in the stillness, allowing myself a moment to catch my breath. As I sit here with only the body of the love of my life to keep me company, one of my favorite poems comes to mind.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
