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Closure
by Elizabeth H. Smith

It’s been three years since the incident. I refer to it as that because I can’t bring myself to see the truth, to speak the words—that would make it too real. It’s still a vague concept, a dream-like idea that maybe I imagined. He can’t really be gone, can’t really be dead.

But the yellowed newspapers from those days confirm it. I know this, the family knows this. Just because I refuse to believe doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

He loved to walk in the park at night. He enjoyed the quiet dark, the soft moonlight, seeing stars sprinkle the sky above. It never made me worry. We didn’t live in a dangerous neighborhood, and it was only two blocks from the house. He’d kiss me before he left, every time. Looking back, it seemed like he did it just in case, as if he knew the worst was possible.

Unfortunately, he’d been right.

It was July, nice weather for night walks. He said he might take a longer walk than usual, which for him wasn’t unusual. He did that every so often. I suppose it helped him clear his head, work out his problems, so that he’d never bring them home. He always came back so relaxed, always with a slight smile and content eyes.

I avoided that park since it happened. I refused to go anywhere near it. I even made sure never to take that street when driving; I always came from the other side of the block. The killer had never been found, justice never served, and so I never got closure. Not for his murder, not for myself. Three years without rest takes a toll. This was the night I finally decided to get it.

My hand shook as I reached for the doorknob, but I willed myself to open it anyway. I stepped out onto the porch, down the steps, and straight toward the park. There was no one else out and the evening was perfectly peaceful. It gave me a sense of unease.

I walked the same path he walked. I knew it because I’d gone with him a few times, but soon realized he liked private time; he wanted to own those walks, have them for himself, and I saw nothing wrong with that. I stepped slow and with intention. I tried to feel him through that place, tried to connect. I was walking in his shoes, experiencing what he experienced, seeing through his eyes.

Ahead, the sodium lamps stopped, leaving a stretch of unlit path. I wondered if that was where it happened. Someone could have been waiting there in the dark for the first passerby. I was afraid to go forward, but I knew I’d never move on if I turned back. I continued through the dark and looked up at the stars. I could see how he found these times so peaceful, so enjoyable to have.

A lamp suddenly turned on to my left. Its light shone brighter than the others, I had to squint just to look in its direction. I wondered why it was so bright. Maybe the glass was broken, or the bulb inside was crooked, causing it to shine to the side instead of straight down.

Then it moved.

The light itself hovered over the grass, illuminating everything around it in a halo of yellow-orange. I froze in place. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. It grew in size and brightness as it got closer to me. I felt its warmth on my face. My heart raced, my legs trembled.

It moved right up to me and sat at eye-level. Then I really saw it, peered deep into it. Not just with my eyes, but with my heart. It seemed to pull me in, to want me to know it. I could feel the life within, sense it with every bit of myself.

It was him. His memory, his essence, his soul. It waited there all that time, for me. For me to get my closure, and for him to have his.

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Fiction © Copyright Elizabeth H. Smith
Image © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose

More About Elizabeth H. Smith:
Elizabeth H. Smith is a storyteller who writes while trying to keep her cat, Luna off the keyboard. The musical group, Rasputina is her muse. She was born in the state of New York and would never feel at home anywhere else.