Sometimes, without even having to close my eyes, I see this picture of my husband’s fire-engine red Durango truck parked in front of Niagara Falls. In a nearly vacant parking lot, it faces the mist that rises against the plummeting waters that seem so effortless and peaceful in their fall.
My husband’s head with his thick, slightly graying dark hair is behind the steering wheel while the shoulder-length dark hair of another women sits in the passenger seat.
Upon a closer look, one could see that his face is ironically dark and grim against the majestic falls; it lacks all signs that he has any inner joy left within him. He is very matter-of-fact, his eyes very calculated, lacking pure or honest emotion. Her face is longing and hopeful. She is patient as her eyes lean into him, looking for something in return. Both are nearly 50-years old. Both have been married and divorced; the only difference is that he remarried and is still married to me.
Being a vacation destination, Niagara Falls should be a happy environment, exuding a joy-filled aura with its vistas that awe every spectator with their mystic beauty and magnificent power, which is emphasized by the sheer grandeur of the cliffs and rock faces, the quantity of water moving with incredible power and intensity, the mystic feel created by the effervescent mist rising in stark contrast to the falling water. But, today, the mist defies the intense cold that holds the air frozen; it gives off a blue and icy chill. Even the bright red of the Durango looks frozen as the red transitions from shiny to frosted in random patches across the body of the vehicle. Though there are a scattering of a few cars and trucks in the parking lot, there isn’t anyone else to be seen.