ERNIE AND ERNESTINA: Searching

Book Two, Chapter 49: Wailing

I pace this apartment and shut my eyes to most of it.

So much here that is Ernie. The tribal rug he picked out, now littered with books and papers. The eight-day clock he found in an antiques mall, now tickless and shrouded in dust. The amber bowl he spotted at a consignment shop, now overflowing with mail I don’t want to deal with, including a renewal notice for my driver’s license.

Four years ago, Ernie and I went together to renew our licenses. I go now to the master chest, open its secret drawer, pick up Ernie’s wallet, pull out his license, and dare to look at the photo. He liked this photo, and now I see why. He’s looking up slightly, smiling shyly, wearing his burlap jacket. He looks like a little boy, shy but hopeful.

I look at his signature under the photo. “A natural,” my graphology teacher said when she saw his handwriting.

Today, I wail. I ache and hurt and wail for Ernie. I wail and curse the person I was who did not know Ernie.