The Sunday I Did Not Sit Beside You In Church

I watched you slide into the pew two rows ahead of me and felt the empty space at my side settle into permanence before the first hymn began.

Morning light streamed through the tall narrow windows and landed in pale bands across the worn wooden floor. Dust rose when people shifted their feet and then slowly fell again. The church smelled of old books and polish and something faintly sweet from the flowers by the altar. I sat alone with my hands folded and listened to the quiet murmur of the town finding its seats. Your coat brushed the edge of the pew as you passed and I did not look up until you were already gone.

We had always sat together. It was not something we ever discussed. You arrived early and saved a place. I came in late and slipped beside you just as the music started. Our shoulders touched. Sometimes your little finger rested against mine. It was enough. It had always been enough until it was not.

The minister began to speak. His voice echoed gently off the high ceiling. Words about patience and endurance filled the space but did not land. My attention stayed fixed on the back of your head and the way you bowed it slightly when you listened. The town had known us this way for years. Together. Quiet. Reliable. No one had ever asked what we were because we were always just there.

Outside the bells rang and marked the hour. Inside I remembered the first time you took my hand here. It had been during a long prayer when everyone else closed their eyes. You had looked over and smiled softly like you were letting me in on a secret. I had smiled back and squeezed once. The moment passed unnoticed by everyone else. That had been our specialty.

We met in this town after both of us had already decided to stay. You worked at the feed store. I taught at the elementary school. Our lives overlapped in ordinary ways. Groceries. Walks in the evening. Shared dinners at my kitchen table. We never rushed. We told ourselves there was no need.

Then your sister got sick. Then your father followed. Responsibility gathered around you like a tightening circle. I offered what I could. Meals. Rides. Quiet company. I did not offer more because you never asked and I did not want to burden you. You never asked because you had learned how to carry things alone.

The first time you did not come over after church I told myself it was the weather. The second time I said you were tired. By the third I understood there was a distance growing that neither of us knew how to cross without naming it. Naming things had never been our strength.

That Sunday I stayed in my seat until the end. People filed past offering smiles and nods. Mrs Garner patted my arm and asked if you were feeling well. I said yes. The word slipped out easily. Truth is flexible when you need it to be.

Outside the sky was clear and cold. Leaves skittered across the steps. I stood for a moment watching people scatter toward their lives. You did not look back. You walked straight ahead with your hands in your pockets and your shoulders set.

I went home and made lunch for one. The house felt larger than usual. Sunlight moved across the floor slowly. I ate standing at the counter and listened to the clock tick. Every sound felt amplified. I realized how much of my life had been organized around the expectation of you.

That afternoon I walked down to the river. Water slid past dark stones and caught the light. I sat on the bank and wrapped my coat tighter. I thought about all the things we had never said because saying them might have required change. I understood then that avoiding pain is also a kind of decision.

The next time I saw you was at the hardware store. You were choosing nails with careful attention. I stood a few feet away pretending to examine paint samples. When you noticed me you smiled politely. Not warmly. Not coldly. Just politely. It was worse than anger would have been.

We spoke briefly. About practical things. About the weather. You asked how my class was doing. I told you fine. Again that word. It fell between us and stayed there.

Weeks passed. Autumn deepened. The town turned gold and brown. We ran into each other often and always alone. The spaces where we might have overlapped closed quietly. I stopped waiting for your knock in the evenings. You stopped lingering when you saw me coming.

One night I found myself back in the church. It was empty and dark except for the small lamp near the altar. I sat in our usual pew. The wood was cool beneath my hands. I let myself remember everything we had been without trying to decide what it meant. Grief does not always need answers.

On Sunday morning I arrived late on purpose. I chose a seat near the back. When you came in you did not look for me. The hymn rose around us. Voices filled the space. I sang quietly and felt something loosen inside my chest.

After the service you passed close enough that I could smell your soap. You paused and said hello. I said hello back. It was gentle. It was final. Neither of us reached out.

That afternoon I went home and moved the extra chair away from the table. I opened the windows and let the cold air in. The house adjusted. So did I.

Weeks later winter came early. Snow softened the edges of everything. On one bright morning I saw you across the square laughing with someone else. The sound startled me and then settled. I realized I wanted you to be happy even if I was no longer part of it.

The following Sunday I sat where I wanted and sang without watching the door. Light streamed in. Dust floated. Life continued in its quiet faithful way.

I did not sit beside you again. The space where we had been remained. Not empty. Just finished. I carried it with me as I stood and walked out into the cold clear air feeling the ache and the release arrive together.