We weren’t going to make it to Valentine’s. Even before I lost the baby, the pulse of this thing had already quieted itself. He was such a good father, though, for those few weeks we started to dream that we were still alive within each other. Once, over a brunch of Belgian waffles with mixed berries and maple chicken sausage, we considered a name. Tambor. Because we had been talking about how early in the first trimester the heart begins to beat, and how that one rhythm is the seed of all other rhythms.
He always wanted to be a musician. He was so passionate about music, but really he had never found his instrument. And I knew all along it was dangerous to plant my garden of hopes with an artist so starved for his art. I really thought my love could save him, become the melody itself that he so badly needed to imbibe. I just wanted to believe that I could be that relief to steady his waters, hold him over until the music became something he could touch and breathe and make on his own.
It was good love, I gave him, but just not adequate to seal the gaps. He waited for the bleeding to stop. Ever the gentleman. We took a walk that last spring morning together, back to the park that was equidistant between his place and mine. We hugged in front of the tree where we had first farted in each other’s presence. He had the welling of tears, but my eyes were sober and dry. He mumbled an apology into my neck, and it suddenly dawned on me how cold the walk home would be. Half hearing, half denying it all, I think I heard him say something about not being whole or enough. Something about always loving our sweet Tambor.
It’s been a year, and I’m still not completely convinced there’s no hope for something to revive itself between us. I called him yesterday. Left a message. I don’t even remember what I said. I needed to lean into that void and place myself there just in case, at that moment, he was also there reaching out for me. Who knows? He might have found the music by now. It could be a whole new thing for us. I know, I know, it’s dangerous to stay in love with a possibility. But I like to think no one is getting hurt in my fantasy, really. Hope can be heartbreaking, but that’s my choice to make. It’s not like he’s giving me the run around or anything. My mother says it’s all in my head, that sometimes that’s just the farthest a love can go. Anyway, Love is resilient, like he always said. And here I am, still a believer.
Sophie is a character I’ve been developing for a while now. Sometimes I play around with storylines to uncover her many layers.