the heel press

One cold October years ago, my husband fell ill. His leukemia had come out of remission and he had but three months to live. He refused, understandably, to spend his last days in a hospital bed, so we tried to make his end a pleasant one. We packed up everything from our apartment on West Sixty-Eighth and Amsterdam, piled it all into my '94 Camry, and settled in a tiny cottage in Woodstock. It was a modest place with a tin roof that sang every time it rained and a hill and forest just behind us we carved with trails on cool afternoons. Beyond that, there was a reservoir we suspected was good for swimming during the summer, but we didn't talk about that.

Around us, the leaves changed, then slowly died as Michael fell to his illness. We took long walks through our woods and discussed philosophy. Neither he nor I had ever believed in God, but in his last few months, Michael confessed that he did. "I can't stand the thought of rotting in the dirt for eternity," he rationalized.

"So get cremated."

Michael just shook his head. "I have to feel like I have a future," he said simply. I could understand that.

We spent many quiet afternoons in that house, he jamming on the upright piano we had bought soon after our arrival, I typing away at my latest novel and mailing it off, piece by piece, to my editor. The profit from my last wouldn't stretch forever, after all. When it snowed, we built a snow man and woman and put them together, stick arms intertwined, on our hill. The reservoir froze over and we enjoyed our rural winter wonderland, carving our modest Thanksgiving turkey as snow fell in flurries outside our window.

One afternoon while we ice skated on the reservoir, Michael fainted. I helped him to his feet and led him back to our house. I made tea and as we drank, he told me his secret. "When I was a child," he said, "I bumped into an old woman on the street. She dropped her groceries, so I helped her up, gathered her things, and carried them up to her apartment for her. She told me she wanted to thank me for what I had done and made me a hot chocolate. 'Drink it all at once,' she said, 'then leave and don't look back.' The hot chocolate warmed me all through my walk out of her apartment. I reached the street and saw a vendor across the street selling roses, and they were red. I mean, real red. At first, I thought it was a dream or I'd imagined it or something, but then, I saw a taxi drive by and it was yellow. Real yellow. I've seen real colors since then. The trees here were so beautiful, you wouldn't believe."

I tried to understand, but for someone who had never seen true colors, like the rest of the world, it was difficult to wrap my mind around. I nodded slowly, then washed the dishes.

Michael and I enjoyed a quiet Christmas together and by that point, he was bedridden. I sat at his side as he told me that I had to move on. "I want you to be happy when I'm gone," he said.

"But I will be happy."

"I want someone to protect you. Please, just say you'll consider remarrying."

"Alright, I will." It was a lie, but I supposed that a few years might change my mind. Michael was the love of my life; we had grown up together and had been high school sweethearts. When we went to college, we went on a break, but that had only made us closer in that sappy "absence makes the heart grow fonder" way.

Three days after Christmas, he died. I accompanied him in the ambulance as fresh-faced residents tried to resuscitate him, but I knew this was the end. He died upon arrival. I walked up to our house half an hour later and saw a cardinal perched in the tree next to our porch. It was red. Real red, just like Michael had described. As I cut a lemon for my dinner that night, it was real yellow, like Michael's taxi, and from then on, I saw real colors, just as he had.

I didn't know how he or I had suddenly developed the ability to see true colors, but I relished it. The colors that had brightened Michael's life made mine vibrant in his absence. I stayed in our cottage instead of moving back to the city, preferring the beautiful autumns and bright springs to the urbanity and what little I could see in Central Park. I took long hikes and swam in the reservoir when summer rolled around. I dated a little in an effort to fulfill his wishes, but the men I dated didn't have the same happiness, the same joie de vivre Michael had been known for. I was glad Michael had believed in God during his last days and even I, ever the skeptical one, began to share his beliefs. I liked to think he had a future, just as he had. Every autumn, it made me smile to see the leaves change color, as Michael must have seen them.

Over time, my interest in dating faded. No man could compare to the one who had made me see life in the colors it was meant to be seen in. I hated that I hadn't kept my promise to him, but I still felt this way. Besides, I was happy, just as I said I would be. It was nice to think that the grass was a little greener and the sky a little more blue because of Michael.