Hugh stared outside his window. 

The skies were clear and the sun, indifferently bright. He played with his food, stale and overcooked, and stole glances at an empty chair, gathering dust in the kitchen corner. His wife looked at him: searching for hope, for comfort, for some acknowledgment that she sat before him. Hugh lowered his head and turned his eyes to the floor.

His wife asked him to pass the silverware, her voice stiff and unfamiliar. She told him a story, though it interested neither of them at the table, and spoke at length about the latest local politics, which bored them all the more. Hugh tried to listen, indulging her in sporadic bursts of feigned interest. However, he could not bring himself to care about engagements, wedding days, or baby showers, never mind any thread of neighborhood gossip.

“Did you hear about the Miller twins?” his wife started, pouring herself a glass of wine. “They look just like their father. The whole family is disappointed.”

“It’s unfortunate.”

“The midwife claimed they had the largest noses she’d ever seen on newborns.”

“Yes, it’s very disappointing, Mary. Very disappointing.”

Hugh struggled to contribute much to their discussions as of late. His wife pretended not to notice, serving him another plate of peas. She had grown tired of their evening meals: the distant greetings and empty silences, the sullen voices and foreign stares. She wanted their lives to return to normal. To resume their simple routines and pleasant conversations. Perhaps, if she carried on as before, they might restore some semblance of their past. Perhaps they could begin their days anew. 

“Anyway, the Millers are well-off. They’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure they will be.”

“They’re a great family. Do you remember Robert, their oldest son? He received a Purple Heart a few months ago. He’ll probably march in the town parade.”

Hugh shook his head. “And what for? So people can gawk and stare?”

“They’ll do no such thing. He’s a national hero.”

“What they left of him, anyway.”

 “He was brave. His country needed him to fight and—”

Their heads turned as a young girl walked into the room, bringing both husband and wife to silence. As the child took her place at the kitchen table, she avoided eye contact with her mother, hoping Mary would neglect to notice her untimely arrival.

Her mother was swift to chastise her. “I’ve been worried sick about you. Where have you been all day?”

“Me and Betty Simms went down to the woods.”

“The woods? At this hour? How could you be so foolish?”

“We didn’t mean to stay long. Time slipped away from us.” 

Mary shook her head, retrieving a cigarette from her dress pocket. Her hands fumbled as she brought it to her lighter. “Don’t you dare leave us like that again, Barbara. Your father and I were worried to death. Weren’t we, Hugh?”

Hugh did not respond, failing to engage in the conversation at hand. Mary sighed and sipped the remaining contents of her red wine.  

“Do you know what could have happened to you out there?”

Barbara slumped in her chair. “I assume you’re going to tell me.”

“There are bears in the woods. They sleep out of sight for a while, biding their time. And then, when the leaves first reappear on branches, when the winter snow subsides, when two foolish children enter the woods without a care for their safety, they aw—”  

“I don’t need a story, Mother. I understand.”

“This isn’t a story, Barbara. It’s not supposed to amuse you. There are bears in the woods: wild, powerful, ravenous bears. You always need to tell me where you are at night. If I’m not there for you, something bad could happen.”

“And what would that be?”

“A waste of all the love I’ve ever poured into you. If a bear saw you, I have no doubt it would eat you whole without regret. And you would enter that place where people become memories and never return.”

The young girl rolled her eyes. 

“There’s no need to be so overdramatic. I promise I won’t die any time soon.”

“Don’t be immature, Barbara. If it happened to Jonathan, it could happen to you, too.” Mary bit her tongue as she spoke, but it was too late. She had already said the unthinkable. “I’m sorry. You know I don’t mean to scare you.”

“I know.”

“It’s just that children are kept safe in your body for only a fraction of their lives. Then they’re ripped away and you can no longer protect them, leaving the deepest, most fragile, most vulnerable part of yourself bare to the world forever.”

“I know.”

“So can’t you understand how much you mean to this family? It’s not right to leave without a word. It’s not right. A child should never do that to a mother.”

Barbara nodded, muttering a brief apology. Throughout the rest of their dinner, she picked at the dirt between her fingernails, remnants of her earlier adventures, and listened to her mother’s lecture unravel with growing disinterest. At occasional lulls in conversation, the girl’s eyes fell upon the ever-abandoned chair in the corner, tucked away from the table so as to remain best out of view. She left the room as soon as her plate was cleared. 

Dinner ended shortly after her departure. While Mary brought the last of their dishes to the kitchen sink, Hugh fidgeted with his hands in silence. He glanced at his wife, if only for a moment, until his eyes fell away from her, moving toward the faded outline of a cross against the wall before him.

Mary turned to face him. “I don’t understand why you ever took that down. It belonged to Barbara’s godfather.”

“It was an eyesore.”

“I happened to like it. You never complained about it before.”

“That’s because I didn’t think it was ugly before. I think it’s ugly now.”

“Fine then. I suppose you’ll never change your mind. We could use the space to hang something else. Jonathan’s medals have lain in his bedroom ever since —”

Hugh set down his fork. “Would you stop, Mary? Would you please just stop?”

“Stop what?”

“Everything. Your righteous lectures. Your false air of happiness. Your pathetic need to continue our lives as if the world hasn’t changed entirely. As if we haven’t changed entirely.”

“Oh, what do you want us to do? Stop the clocks and disconnect the telephones?” Mary spoke like she was built of glass, and could break at any moment — her words grew quiet, weak, and still. “The world will continue on without our son. It already has.”

Hugh folded his napkin. Then he rose from his seat, pushing his chair into the table. “I have some work to finish in my study.” 

“Is that what you would rather do, Hugh? Give up on the world? On your family?”

Hugh wanted to hold her in his arms. To tell her just how sorry and broken he felt.

However, neither of them could bear the awkwardness of grief — of one person failing to understand another. For grief was not as straightforward as funerals and clouds and rains. Nor as simple as a final goodbye. Grief was every word, fuzzy and vague. Antennas connecting only to static.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do it, Mary. I can’t pretend to be the same when you and I both know there are bears in the woods and good people are taken from us every day.”

Hugh turned away and walked upstairs without a word. He would remain in his study for the rest of the night, and the rest of the nights to follow, until everyone in the house had settled among different rooms and fractured company.