Gone

Gone

He keeps his eyes on the treetops when they lower her into the ground. If he looks down he feels he may break; simply shatter and crumble into dust only to be whisked away by the breeze. He refuses to look up at the sky, because that's clichéd and played out and Hermione would have puked at the sheer drama of it. There is a hand on his shoulder, but really doesn't feel it. He hears sobbing all around him, but those aren't real either. It is as if he has been plucked from his life, from his couch (half asleep, listening to the game on the Wireless, eating chips and making a mess and not really caring too much), and dropped down into this somber scene.

He feels detached and immersed at the same time, in the world but not of it. He thinks of boring days at The Wheeze, spinning around in his chair until colors run, and then standing suddenly, feeling his feet, so firmly on the ground, and his head, light and wobbly. This is how he feels now. He runs a finger along the cuff of his suit and wishes he were dead.

Later - much later - when he's buried her in his heart, he watches a different girl walk towards him down the aisle. Harry gives him a sad, slow smile from his seat, and Ron remembers his words from years ago and decides not to give up, not ever. This new girl is not his girl, and never will be (he decides that too), but he loves her and he figures (he hopes) that it's enough. They lie in bed on their honeymoon and he sinks his face into her hair (straight and blonde and just not right) and breathes in its unfamiliar smell slowly, closing his eyes to the unfairness of it all.

Their only child moves out years later, and he leans against the door frame watching her car turn the corner. His body feels electric, like he's been hit with some unseen current, and he itches to run after her. When he turns away, his wife is standing with her back to him, gray in her hair and hands at her sides, and he feels upon himself all the emptiness of their home. They move into a smaller house, but it still feels large around them.

Sometimes he thinks about Hermione, but the memories are faded and torn around the edges, like photographs handled too often. He imagines the life they would have had, the people they would have become, and has to sit down, overcome and homesick for a place he's never been. His grief has followed him all these years and he treats it like an old friend; inviting it in and making it comfortable. He startles himself awake some nights, feeling in his heart all the spaces that won't ever be filled.

When he dies, sitting in his favorite chair, a glass of milk beside him, he feels no pain. His eyes are heavy and then suddenly they are not, and he is standing on the banks of the river he played in as a kid. He turns, feeling the youth of his body, his red hair tickling his collar, and sees a house with a terrace. He strolls to it, his heart a hammer in his chest, and walks through the open front door.

She is sitting in the living room surrounded by her books, fingers stained with ink, her long hair dark brown and unruly around her. She looks over her shoulder; a smudge of black ink on her cheek from where she pushed her hair back, and grins at him. He thinks of her here, in this home (their home), writing and reading and waiting for him. All this time, he has thought of her - carrying her with him always - living his life as best he could.

When his eyes finally meet hers, he can't do anything but smile.