"Ernie"

a journal entry.

I can remember so clearly, and I feel like I always will remember that day. That one day that I had been expecting, awaiting, even dreading. But no number of years of waiting would’ve prepared me mentally for what was to come, and deep down somewhere, I knew that.
The weather that day was out of a fairytale- snow capped the hills, wind was loud like metal music to our ears, it seemed we were all alone in this haunted winter wonderland, as far as the eye could see, there was just white. And somehow, this struck an ominous ring in my heart. We were doing mundane things, my boy and I, and as I looked up while buttoning his jacket I saw it. That tram, forgive my language, but that wretched tram, which brought along a man, and some news. He was wearing a hat and glasses. I remember vividly the rhythm of my racing heart as he stepped up to our porch.
As he came up, the snow close to engulfed him and for a second he wasn’t there, I heard my baby let out a breath of relief, one that childhood grants you, one that allowed him to think maybe it was all an illusion after all. Sadly, adulthood is not so gracious and I didn’t flinch as he re-appeared. He shook the snow out of his hat, the stark white flakes contrasting boldly on his coat, melting to sink into the darkness of the fabric.
He didn’t pronounce his name right. At the time, I didn’t mind, but as I locked myself up in the bathroom later on, trying to digest the news it saddened me to think that one of the last times his name was spoken, it wasn’t really spoken. I remember the pen didn’t write, as if even the Gods didn’t want to believe, didn’t want to make it tangible. But then it did, and I signed, and I received the telegram, already knowing, in a twisted, horrible, ugly, knowing way, what it contained.
I guess I must say it at some point, Ernesto, Ernie, my Ernie, is dead.
I knew this was possibility every time he stepped out of the house to go to work. I knew every time I held him and every time I saw him hold our baby boy, every time we had a meal together, as a family, that it might be our last. I knew, but I didn’t want to believe. I still don’t want to believe. I wish I’d hugged him a little tighter, spoken to him a little longer, held his arm with all my might and not let him step out the door. But I let him go, and now he’s gone. I look at my baby, he’s sleeping, and I think to myself, he’s all I have left. All I have, to remind me that Ernie even existed. That our love was real. He’s all I have.