You’re standing in ice cold and stiff and shiny dress shoes on well-groomed grass under a bright morning sun in an uncomfortable suit listening to a preacher you don’t know talk about someone you loved dearly. You are sweating and cold at the same time.

The quiet solemnity surrounding you is at sharp odds with the chaos in your head. It’s the opposite of a hurricane – the calm warm eye of the storm surrounds you, but behind your eyes rages a cat 5, hurling chunks of hail and ripping down signposts you thought would guide you and washing away beliefs you held dear. All you loved and the life you were building, the life you had already built, is nothing but a vast wasteland stretching out to the horizon, littered with jagged storm debris.

Behind you lay a rich life of achievements and children and grandchildren, now stripped of color and flavor and warmth, now just a crumbling fading mocking effort at meaning.

Ahead is a terrifying unavoidable no man’s land of grief and solitude and colorless icy despair.

You are surrounded by contrasts and contradictions, and the struggle to keep contained your screams and fears is resulting in clenched fists and curled toes inside those new shoes. Your feet are blocks of ice, and the ill-fitting suit ripples in the breeze, fluttering against your own cold hard skin.

Your thoughts are nothing but questions. Now what? How could this be? When will I wake up? When will SHE wake up? Where is she now?

Now what.

Everything has been made hollow and hard and cold. You look around at the others, people dressed in black, and you catch some looking at you. You look back, questioning them wordlessly – did you know? Did YOU know? Did anyone know that she was the meaning of life? That she would take it with her when she died? That meaning poured forth from her like warm spring water? Was I a fool to not see it coming?

Then you realize no one is talking, and instead of some looking at you, they all are. You look back at each of them.

What now?

Your eyes circle back to the preacher and he gestures toward a shovel. Holy God, you think – they want me to bury her.

You don’t understand the why of anything. What’s the point? The bright sunlight and green grass and morning breeze once meant the promise of a beautiful day, but now you see those bright promises were dark and empty, like shiny sweet candy distracting you from the inevitable passage of time. Like cold space, all is void.

You walk forward and pick up a shovel. It has no weight. The dirt you pick up with the shovel has no weight. The sound made by the dirt landing atop the coffin is hollow, like a cheap imitation of what dirt piling up on a coffin should sound like.

Someone gently takes the shovel from your hand, and for a moment her hand touches yours and it’s warm, like the sun itself is touching you. You look up into the eyes of your wife, but see instead the face of your daughter. You feel a crack in the ice encasing your heart, and something warm emerges, slowly, carefully. Hope, brought forth, small, like an atom, but hot, like the sun, and even though the world is now pointless and frozen, a tiny part inside you begins to melt, and you begin to cry, staring into the face of your daughter and the eyes of your wife.

You’re standing in the airlock listening to a diminishing hiss. The needle on the pressure meter is still in the green, but not for long. Soon, in minutes, it’ll cross that threshold between green and yellow, and you wonder if you’ll feel uncomfortable. Not worried. Just curious.

You’re getting cooler, too. It isn’t cold yet, but you figure you’ll be frozen solid by the time it’s uncomfortably cold.

The airlock isn’t large, but big enough for three or four people in puffy EVA suits, so it feels luxuriously spacious now, alone, wearing nothing but jeans and a t-shirt. About the size of your first apartment with her. That was a crazy, busy, time for both of you. Part time jobs, full time school, friends everywhere. Sleep was for the old and the dead. That was four years of work, study, sex, fast food, trips home, weekends in orbit, internships on the moon. Four years out of eighty, four great years, but not even the best years.

You push yourself off the back wall and float toward the outer door, then grab the overhead rung with ancient wrinkled hands and hold steady before the small window. Your nose bumps the glass – triple paned and thick – but you’re still shocked at how cold it is. You realize you’ve never touched with your bare hands any part of the outer hull, and you wonder if you’ll still be conscious when the door slides open. It’d be cool to lay your old hands on the exterior of the station, if only for a moment.

You’re looking through the window at the stars, at the millions you can see, wondering about the billions you can’t, sugar sprinkled on black velvet, but more, and denser, and blacker and alive. You crane your neck and try to look in all directions at once, but the glass is cold and you’re feeling colder, and your neck starts to cramp, so you back away and stand straight and breathe and close your eyes.

And you think of the life you’re leaving behind. You can see in your mind the moment you met her, how it seems like a million life chapters ago and how it seems like it was yesterday. You can see her smile and hear her call your name, and you can see her holding the babies – first one, then she’s a little older and holding another, then she’s older and she’s holding another. And you can see the evolution of your children from babies to people, responsible and with babies of their own. And somehow sixty trips around the sun have gone by since that first apartment, and together you lived and thrived and, finally after a lucky and earned full life, she died.

You’re standing in the airlock listening to the diminishing hiss, hoping you’ll be with her soon. Hoping the children will understand. They should be getting the queued message soon, and you hope you wrote enough. You hope they can explain the importance of each moment to their own children, and you hope they live each day with the gratitude you are feeling at this moment.

It wasn’t always easy, but by embracing the inevitability of the end, you found peace and patience and joy every day.

Your eyes are closed, and the hissing stops, and you can feel the airlock door slide open, and a warm gentle hand rests on your arm, pulling you out into the sunlight, and you know you’ll never stop feeling grateful.

You’ve jumped from a cliff, and now gravity has you.

It was intentional but you didn’t understand the consequences. You looked out from the lip at a beautiful sunrise and blue sky and a distant horizon and thought, “I want to be a part of that. I can be a part of that.”

So you backed away from the edge, about ten steps, and dug in your feet, and then sprinted, hearing an imaginary gun declaring the start of the race.

Except you aren’t racing. You’re alone.

And you ran flat out and leapt, arms out, reaching, and for a moment you arched up, and you smiled, grinned, a maniacal joy like rapture filling you.

Then you leveled off. Then you started dropping. Then you realized there was no turning back, nothing to grab hold of.

Now you see details on the ground getting bigger, what was a bush is now a tree, small rocks are boulders.

You are terrified by the inevitable, and your only hope is that you don’t survive, because you know the end will be instant but surviving will be long and painful and a burden to all who love you.

“I’m sorr-“

Or you can download a free PDF from here.

Amazon discourages authors from freely distributing their work unless you enroll in their KDP program – but if you do that, the story cannot be available anywhere else. So, not ready to do that yet.

It’s a short story about a space freighter pilot and her husband. Comments welcome!

All epics start somewhere.