path of totality ...how Icarus fell out of the sun

I don’t know what it’s like to be in the path of a total eclipse with a wall of shadow coming at you hundreds of miles an hour, and feeling powerless to stop it or get out of its way.

But I do know what it feels like to see a truck cross the centerline at night on a mountain road and the twin moons of headlights drive you into oblivion.

I came out of that nightmare after spending a month in intensive care, but Em was not so lucky—she died then and there.

Two years married and planning a family—our romance fruitless and marked by despair.

The first few days out of the hospital I spent planning a memorial service in her honor. I wasn’t there for the funeral or burial.

I wasn’t there for a lot of things, but I’m there at nights when she returns.

That’s right, she returns.

It begins with little ado—much like an eclipse—and slowly creeps up on me.

At first, I was convinced it was simply grief. I mean, what else could it be?

A face in a dream, a few forgotten words—it was hopelessly mundane, until it got worse.

It was a carry-over from my day, continuing in my sleep—I was obsessing about her voice and thinking I saw her face.

Em’s friend, Nan, was worried.

“It’s depression, Sean, it has to be. “You should see your doctor and maybe he can give you an anti-depressant.”

“So, if the pill makes her go away, then it wasn’t real?”

Her frightened, fragile smile tells all. She thinks I’m having a breakdown.

“I’ll go and see Dr. Willett, Nan—no worries, you’re probably right.”

Turns out, Nan was right. The Doctor had a sense I was showing early signs of a ‘complicated’ grief, and was afraid if he didn’t prescribe, I’d try self-medicating.

So, here I was on Prozac, and conflicted, as I usually was.

I was of two minds on the matter. I wanted the ache of the grief to abate, but didn’t want to lose my last contact with her.

If all I had were dreams, I wasn’t sure I wanted to throw those away.

I was on medication for two days and didn’t dream.

I could actually make it through the day with a tolerable amount of emotional pain.

I wasn’t anesthetized by any means, and didn’t hear her voice or see her face, so I suppose some progress was made—at least, that’s what I thought until the third night...

when everything came undone.

I watched an old forties film on TV, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir—probably not the best choice, but thought I was on the mend.

I took a Prozac and went to bed and quickly fell asleep.

I dreamt I was walking at Cherry Beach with Em, and we were talking as we always did, and the wind was punishing her hair.

We were laughing and talking and skipping pebbles on the waves. We seemed to walk forever until my leg cramp began.

“Are you alright?” she asked, face pale with concern.

“I’m fine,” I laughed, “It’ll go away—it always does.”

But it didn’t. It grew worse, and then I finally woke up, with my calf cramped and aching with pain.

I went downstairs and made tea, hoping the cramp would work itself out and ease—but it was still swollen and bruised.

All during that day, I touched my calf and could still feel a dull ache.

Pretty realistic dream, I mused, and then decided to get some air and see if I could walk it off.

When I opened the closet door, my heart froze. My sandals were coated with sand, and I’m sure they weren’t the last time they were worn.

I couldn’t get it out of my mind—all through my walk, I obsessed about it.

I got home and forced myself to do chores, to keep busy and keep my mind off the dream.

I carried the laundry hamper to the basement to put on a load of washing and that’s when I noticed my jeans. The hems of both pant legs were damp and crusted with beach sand.

I sank to the basement floor and wept.

A pill could take away the pain but it couldn’t alter the facts.

I had been with Em.

Two months later, I’m coming around… somewhat.

I went to the art gallery with Nan today and saw a 16th century painting by Brueghel, called, Landscape with the Fall of Icarus.

I knew Icarus made wings of wax that melted and he fell into the ocean and drowned, but for the life of me, I couldn’t see him in the portrait until Nan pointed him out.

There were two pathetic legs sticking out of the water in the bottom right corner as Icarus drowned—and the bystanders didn’t stop to help him—they weren’t even aware he was there.

That painting haunts me now. It’s a symbol of what is right and wrong with existence in general, and my life in particular, and Em who is gone.

The only thing that would make people stop and stare is a total eclipse of the sun—other than that, the glare of the ordinary drowns everything out.

They have no concept of others’ pain.

But, put them there, in the path of totality, a wall of shadow rushing towards them at hundreds of miles an hour, and they'll understand. Grown men scream.

Yes, it’d be frightening—a brief frisson, and then a return to insensible forgetfulness.

And for them, momentarily, the light flickers, and is gone.

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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