Phobia

Courtesy Photo
Courtesy Photo

Phobia -- an irrational yet intense fear of something while, in reality, the very thing which is feared poses little or no actual danger. Some have a fear of spiders, heights or those hollow metal needles that are sometimes used to puncture our arms.

I have a fear. It's a fear that has bored its way into my mind, and I cannot chase this abomination from my dreams. I am afraid that a new and unused morning may come when I awake and find that I am left with nothing more than a redacted version of the previous day's memory.

There are moments when, quite without warning, a chill comes over me. It moves throughout my body just as the cold winds of winter pass through the branches of the trees. That chill brings with it a wicked, cold and numbing fear, a fear that I cannot remember what Robin looked like. I find myself afraid that the look of her face has fallen into a deep and dark part of my memory and I can't bring it to mind.

I keep a photo of my best friend on a nightstand next to my bed. It is tastefully framed, although not overly ostentatious, in a golden colored metal frame with four areas of scroll engravings in relief. I took some time in choosing that picture frame as I desired that it might in some way reflect upon her as I remember her, subtly tasteful.

I consider the framed picture to be, at least to a rather limited degree, insurance. Should that fearful morning come when the image of Robin has crept into an inaccessible and darkened place in my mind, I tell myself that the picture may rekindle the image and memories of her as she was before her death these some 288 weeks ago. But, I also tell myself that the frame and photograph are no more than bits of metal and paper.

There are moments when I question the importance of memories and ask myself if some are not better forgotten. I would like to forget the thunderstorms and rain but admire forever the green grass-covered valleys. Would it be that I could not recall the cold winter's frozen earth but enjoy the flowering red rose? Memories, however, are complicated things and I know that I can't selectively omit harsh ones nor save favored ones.

I am writing this story, this grouping of words that some may call my written self-incrimination, on the night of the blood moon. I can't explain why this night should be much different than any other but, for some unexplained reason, it seems like the right time and the right night to tell you about my fear. When I really think about this night of the reddish moon and this story, there seems to be no correlation. However, I have come to realize that somewhere in the farthest recesses of my mind lays the rationale behind many, if not all, of my actions.

I am determined to complete this bit of writing in its entirety before the morning sun chases the night sky away. I find that this may be the only way that I can ensure that sleep won't erase the memories of Robin. I curse the darkness, not for what it is, for we all must be who and what we are. I curse the blackness for what it may bring to me or take from me.

Finding ways to avoid sleep seems to be an obsession. I tell myself that I have things to do while this blood moon casts its red tint over the land but, if I were to be completely honest, I am merely avoiding sleep, sleep while my bedroom is quiet and dark.

I have remained awake this night of the blood moon writing this story, thus ensuring that this will most certainly not be the morning when Robin's face is forgotten. The morning has come and the light from a spectacular orange, pink and yellow streaked sky begins to flood through the bedroom window and onto my face. Yes, I do remember the look of my best friend's face -- her mouth, eyes and nose. I remember the way she walked, smelled and I can almost feel the touch of her hand on my neck.

I find that my advancing years may be a contributing factor to my memory lapses, and this I deeply regret. I often forget that the dark and cold night came before the bright and sunlit day. When I take a moment to admire the beautiful red rose growing in the garden, I understand that it is tangible and I can touch it or cut the stem and place the flower in a vase. However, all that remains after death are memories.

Occasionally, a transient thought finds its way into my mind. Then, and quite suddenly, it's gone, gone leaving only the annoying and smoldering feeling that I have forgotten something. But what? These miscues of memory don't cause me measurable annoyance because I realize that there will be more thunderstorms and more dark nights, but I refuse to accept and find so terrifying the morning that may someday cause me to forget the face, smell and the touch of my wife, for there will never be another Robin.

When we are stripped of our many facades, only our very souls and most ancient of emotions remain. There, and for all to bear witness to, is our sadness, joy, weeping, laughter, hate and -- most precious of all -- love.

The prophet Khalil Gibran once wrote, "Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself. Love possesses not nor would it be possessed: For love is sufficient unto love."

Maybe it's the love which Robin and I shared that holds the fondest of memories and I can't imagine ever forgetting that.

The story of my phobia is best told by me and me alone, for who could tell it better.

Stan Fine is a retired police officer and Verizon Security Department investigator who, after retiring in 2006, moved from Tampa, Fla., to Noel. Opinions expressed are those of the author.

Editorial on 02/14/2019