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.
