One Last Embrace, My Love
er husband was dead. She looked upon his face, peaceful in its
repose, trying to gather in his features. She knew that the memory of them
would have to last her for the rest of her life.
There were his mustaches, dark and thick, now neatly trimmed. The clean dark turban covering his head. The brown uniform, imposing and trim, with its medals and honors. She touched the closed eyelids, gently, knowing they would not open again to look at her with their sharp, keen blackness, their indomitable purpose, their impassioned love. She kept tears far away. She had already shed enough of them.
She wondered at how he had wooed her so easily, so many years ago. Him a dashing adventurer out of Dutch Curacao, fresh from voyages with some of the most dreaded names in the Indies, a long blade at his hip and chests of hard-won prize money to purchase himself respectability. Her a governor's daughter, young but firm in her beliefs, English born and English bred. He had swept her off her feet at that dance - what year had that been, that day in Saint Kitts? She smiled at the memory. Her father had counseled her, of course. "His affections are more likely to be aimed at currying my favor, my dear." She had believed that. But he kept on courting her for months on end, longer than he could have for even a powerful governor's ear. His wealth gave him a comfortable amount of tobacco-growing land and all the things that went with it, and she, without too much effort, fell for his charms, and his strange desire to be with her whenever possible. For a young sheltered girl growing up in what amounted to a rough colonial trading town, he was desire personified.
The skies of Barbados were clear and blue above her beloved. It is a beautiful day for a burial, she thought. Not a cloud was in the sky, and heaven itself could not be far behind such a wondrous sight, she thought.
Throughout the time he had not been able to speak any longer, his sickness a long one, she remained at his side. As she would on this day. She smiled and smoothed out her dress. It was long and white, the one she had married him in. It still fit her. The ring at her finger had been there for seven years. She remembered their vows, remembered him speaking them, remembered their mutual answers, and the outrush of raw emotion with each word spoken.
She wiped at her eyes. The hollow darkness of the grave was carefully spaded out, at the edge of a bluff overlooking the sandy beach. She turned away to watch the gently cresting waves embrace the motionless land for a time, through the material of her veil. The dreamy material gave a gentle softness to her world.
She nodded to the first of the dark-skinned men that hovered about her, their miens solemn and anxious.
Her husband was held in great respect, and their hands were not rough with him as they laid him in the earth. The strong angles of his face sank into the deep shadows cast by the overhead sun, as he was lowered. It seemed an eternity to her before he came finally to rest amidst the soft soil.
She considered the small silver cross that hung from her neck by a fine chain, for a moment. She touched the inscription, 1726, with a finger, smiling at the words of young lovers under it, young and blind to future as they were.
It is the custom among some native widows here that he spoke of, she thought - I have only a plantation - not a life - to oversee now. She could think of nothing more worthwhile than assuring his happiness in the next world. He had only mentioned it to her as a jest, she was sure, but the softness of her gaze had stopped him. Why, I think you would indeed accompany me, my dear, he said, as he took her hand, his manners ever perfect. He did not laugh, for he knew her seriousness, and neither did he frown, as she knew the lengths of his.
The decision was already made in her mind, but the doubt, the fear, crept into her at that last moment. She pushed it away, and extended her left hand, in its fine white glove, to her left.
The man there took it in his own, and with utmost carefulness, helped her down into the blackness.
The smell of dirt and earth assailed her, and the sun became dim, but she did not flail. She clasped her helper's hand when safely down, seeing his impassive expression. "I am fine," she said. He murmured something she barely heard, a blessing.
She laid herself beside her husband, propping him up against the earthen wall with her right arm around him. She waited until the workers had buried them both up to their waists, stroking his face softly with the edge of her glove. His sickness had not made him any less handsome. The weight of the dirt on her legs did not seem a burden. One of the men came down and offered her a shallow bowl to drink from, which she shook her head to. He blessed her as well, his voice low and murmuring.
She looked up into the sun then, seeing only the bright white light, the silhouettes of the strong black workers, shovels in their hands, all around the dark earth. Her chest rose and fell. Excitement filled her. The soft, glowing material of her wedding train was lowered, falling over her vision, over their passive forms. Before the first violent splash of black dirt fell upon the lace, she lifted her veil and turned to her husband, to where he only could see her beauty, and she touched her lips to his.
