Only One Thing Left to Give by Deborah L. Davitt

Would we have loved each other as much, if he hadn’t died? Would our living love have faltered and grown dim with time, with ennui, with despair?

I’ll never know. He’ll never know.

What I do know is that his ghostly love is as addictive as opium. Nothing has ever been as dazzling as that first ephemeral kiss as I lay weeping by his graveside, fingers clenched in the long grass, trying to will myself into the earth to join him.

My tears were his libation then. It was enough—his hand rose through the earth to clasp mine, misty and cool against the warmth of my flesh, and as I spoke his name in a gasp, I inhaled some of his essence.

And then I was him, and he was me, joined for what felt like an eternity. I could remember his memories of how we’d first met—how he’d bumped into me on purpose on the train just so he’d have the excuse to help me pick up my books and start a conversation. He perused my memories of the same meeting, reliving the pulse of my embarrassment and confusion. More memories followed, a blazing profusion that flowered behind my eyes, and made me hunger for more, and more.

We kissed, aching and slow, with me breathing the coldness of him into my lungs, a freezing ache. And then he slipped back away, under the green of the grass, leaving me chilled, bereft, and aching in every limb for him.

The second time I visited the grave, I felt too full of hope to weep . . . until he didn’t appear. That crushing realization, the thought that it might all have been a dream of grief, brought forth the tears, and this time, as his tongue slid into my mouth, I barely noticed the cold. Barely noticed that those first memories seemed dimmer, harder to reach. Instead, our minds tarried on more recent, richer fare—declaring our engagement to our families, to the delight and approval of both sets of parents. Our wedding day, and our first kiss as a married couple, reflected through two sets of memories, tears of joy sliding down my cheeks making his lips—my lips—taste like brine.

You’re already starting to forget, he whispered in my mind as I stretched out beside his grave as if the green sward were our bridal bed once more. As time goes by, tears won’t be enough to summon me. It will take more precious libations.

I didn’t care. I was in love. I was addicted to his cold kisses, to the memories of us, twining so sweetly in my mind. But he was right. Every time I visited, it was harder to bring those memories back in the full flush of the moment. They dulled. They grayed.

When tears weren’t enough, I bought a bottle of the champagne poured at our wedding, and poured it out into his grave, ignoring the curious expressions of those present to tend to the gravestones of other loved ones. He rose from the bubbling foam like some kind of sea-god that only I could see, only I could touch, only I could experience, and for a moment, the strike of the memories against my heart was as clear and true as ever before. I could experience again loving him. Could experience again, him loving me.

But with each passing month, it took more, and more. I brought my favorite perfume—an expensive bottle he’d bought me for our first anniversary—and poured that out instead of wine. It was enough—the emotional resonance of it was pure, a gift of his own hand—and against his lips, I began to whisper his name, begging him to understand that I couldn’t keep coming to him like this. That I had nothing left to give that would bring him back to me like this, not even one more time.

You forget. The living always forget. The words were a lash, so unlike his usual loving tones, the ones I’d lived to hear again and again in the echo of our mingled thoughts. And you lie. You still have one thing left to give.

I left him there, both of us yearning, both of us unfulfilled, knowing in my heart what he meant, and disturbed by it. I tried to get on with my life, the way everyone told me I was supposed to, but the memories tormented me. Some days, I couldn’t remember how he’d laughed. What he’d smelled like. The shade of his eyes.

Pictures weren’t enough. Video clips a pale shadow. I tried rolling onto his side of the bed and sniffing for the last, lingering remnants of his scent on the mattress, but it was gone. His aftershave, without the underlying smell of his flesh, was little more than alcohol.

I went to work. I came home. I ate food that had no taste, no savor. I read listlessly, and found in the Odyssey confirmation of what I’d suspected. The one libation no ghost could resist. Blood. Particularly, human blood.

I knew a drop or two would be enough, the way my tears had been enough . . . at first. But then it would take more, and more, until I’d poured out my heart’s last gasp onto his grave for one final taste of memory.

I knew it. He knew it.

And yet he’d asked it of me.

Which meant that his ghost didn’t love me at all. He was as addicted to my life, my sorrow, as I was to his death and memory.

So I didn’t go back to the grave. I packed up his clothes and gave them away. Re-arranged the bedroom so that my belongings were on both sides. Bought myself a new bottle of perfume—a different scent, for a different life.

Little steps.

In the end, that’s all we have.