For You Blue

For You Blue

Jules jumped off the Main Street Bridge this morning. I’m not sure if it was because of the problems she had in her life that she was tired of trying to handle or if it was mine. 

She plunged down about 14 feet into the still frozen waters, crashing through the ice in a thin spot near one of the piles of the bridge. It wasn’t the fall that killed her, it was the entrapment under the ice that killed her; drowned her, but she knew it would. She was counting on it. She knew that she would be trapped under the ice, but she also knew that the ice wasn’t very thick anymore in this late time of February, and if she really wanted to, that is, if she would somehow at the last minute change her mind, she could have easily busted through and try for one last chance at grasping for the air just above. But she didn’t. 

She was found about 2 miles down the river, under the ice, clear as a window to the darkness below; she was face up, eyes open, as if to watch her own soul float upward towards the heavens, if that was the way she chose to go. The coldness of the water tightened her skin, making her look years younger, giving her this beautiful blue hue on her cheeks and lips that we always tried to attain when we would go out to the Goth clubs in college. Her hair floated slowly around her, but she remained still and peaceful, so beautiful. I knew she was dead, but as I looked at her threw the looking glass, I couldn’t help to be extremely jealous. The scene surrounding the river was beautiful; bare, brown trees whose branches caught some of the snow from the other night, fresh white sparkling, undisturbed snow caked onto the ground, clear blue sky reflected on the clear ice. Small tufts of clouds littered here and there. The sun made everything illuminated, even the shadows were crisp and defined. The sun made her eyes sparkle like obsidian. I wish that we wouldn’t have to disturbed her. I wish we could have let her stay in her frozen grave, forever to be beautiful, forever to be young and forever to be romanticized by lunatics like me. 

We met on a train traveling from Milwaukee to Chicago. The Hiawatha train I was told. We fell in love instantly. At least that was what my sister said. I don't know. I can't remember. I can't remember anything about him, my husband, or of our life together. I stare at his plastic face, lifeless, secrets forever kept. He lays in the casket, this stranger. His face is unfamiliar to me. I only know what these people tell me. They tell me that we were in love, that our wedding was beautiful, that he was taken too soon. They also tell me that I must be so sad. I'm not, but I don't tell them that.

They all know I was in the car with him and that he died while I suffered a severe head injury, hence the memory loss. They all know this, yet they seem to forget. I'm only out of the hospital to attend the funeral. I told the doctors that I didn't want to go, but they insisted. They said that maybe something will job my memory. So far, nothing has. One of the nurses at the hospital added in a low mumble that going to your husband's funeral is something that a wife should do. I don't think she meant for me to hear her, but I did. I wonder if it's really me with the memory problem. Perhaps she doesn't know what's it like to suddenly wake up and not know who you are, who these people are that come to visit you every day, to find out that you were married to someone who is now dead and not have any idea who that person was or what kind of life you had with him. Maybe that's why she says things like that, forgetting that I have forgotten everything.

There is a man across the room that keeps staring at me. My sister, I still forget her name though she's told me several times, says that he was one of my husband's grad students. I'm not sure what she means but the man who greeted us is about to speak, and I do know that it's rude to talk while someone is speaking.