Hamnet

by Maggie O'Farrell

Too small, it seemed, to go into the earth like that, alone.

The spectre is speaking without a mouth, saying he will not come in, he cannot, and they, the inhabitants, are hereby ordered not to go out, not to take to the streets, but to remain indoors until the pestilence is past.

There is not enough life, enough air, enough blood for both of them. Perhaps there never was.

There will be no leaving. There will be staying. There will be closing of the doors, the four of them drawing together, like dancers at the end of a reel.

They stand like this, together, unified, for a moment, and she feels the pull towards him that she always does and always has, as if there is an invisible rope that circles her heart and ties it to his.

There is a part of her that would like to wind up time, to gather it in, like yarn.

She discovers that it is possible to cry all day and all night.

It is hard to know what to do with his clothes.

Folding his clothes, tending to them, breathing in his scent, she can almost persuade herself that he is still here,

To walk by his grave every Sunday is both a pain and a pleasure.

They are travelling upstream but he can sense that the tide is turning; the river seems confused, almost hesitant, trying to flow in two directions at once.

If she just keeps on making stitches, over and over, of equal size, perhaps all this will pass.

Please, is what she is thinking. Please come. Just once. Don’t leave me here like this, alone, please. I know you took my place, but I am only half a person without you. Let me see you, even if only for the last time.

“Remember me.”