‘Remembrance’

Elizabeth Agre retired in northern mn along side the bear, wolves, and bobcats. She writes poems, paints, and takes pictures.

Remembrance

Jasmine glided through the office, her chin tilted upward. The sharp click of her red-bottom heels against the polished floor echoed like a declaration, each step daring the room to question her authority. Jasmine prepared to meet a new high-end client a week into her partnership. The moment Jasmine stepped into the room, the air was thick with the sound of sobs. A woman, mascara streaking her cheeks, clutched a tissue in one hand and a marriage in the other—shattered, betrayed, and desperate for revenge.

 Memories of their wedding day flickered—her racing heart, the tight grip on her bouquet. Now, those moments felt distant. The Gothic-style church stood with its rocky grey exterior in stark contrast to the gleaming white marble interior—a renovation that had cost a fortune. At least that's what the wedding planner told them when they asked why the venue was so expensive. It wasn't like they couldn't afford it. Jasmine was a newly named partner at her law firm, attesting her promotion to her firm's attempt at their version of affirmative action. Of course, there were more deserving employees, women who had worked there for years. However, she was the only black one who worked there. 

Her other Black female attorneys left because they were overworked. Jasmine loved her hours. They kept her from going home and worrying about whether Chuck had managed to sell one of his paintings. Jasmine stopped thinking about Chuck and their marriage to look at her boss's vast pile of papers stacked haphazardly. She would be going home late again today. 

Chuck lay sprawled across the ten-thousand-dollar couch, the cushions swallowing his body as he drifted between sleep and waking, oblivious to the world beyond the plush fabric. The luxury that Jasmine had so carefully curated for her friends meant nothing to him. Though it was three in the afternoon, he remained stretched out, unconcerned with the day slipping by. Chuck had the expression of a spoiled dog, a pet who didn't have a care in the world. He slept like he was unaware of the cost of maintaining the life they built and the checks it took to keep them living the way they lived. Chuck could sleep his life away, and his owner would still love him the same, if not more, because of how cute he looked resting. He finally rolled over and got up around seven in the afternoon. He didn't brush his teeth, he didn't hop in the shower, and he didn't eat anything. Instead, the first thing he did was start stringing the new bass guitar he had just bought. The guitar was custom-made by a retired professional rock star. Chuck had always dreamed of attending one of their concerts as a child. 

Chuck didn’t blink at the price. A few taps on his phone and the funds vanished from their joint account as easily as ordering takeout. That evening, Jasmine returned home, her voice sharp as she confronted Chuck about his decision to buy the guitar without consulting her. She didn't understand if it was custom-made or if the rock star shaved down the tusk of an African elephant to give the guitar a hollower sound—this guitar's glossy brown was a beautiful contrast to the ivory interior. 

"I thought it was our bank account," Chuck said, giving Jasmine a smirk, knowing he had won the fight. Chuck was playing the guitar, though not well. The sound mimics a child playing with a guitar in passing. He didn't hear when Jasmine came in from work. Chuck remembered the first time they met, back in their pre-law class. Before long, he had switched his major to painting and sculpture—a decision that tacked two more years and countless loans onto his degree. Jasmine presented her project on the Fourth Amendment and what it meant to her as a black woman. He remembered her standing in front of the class and talking about how she couldn't exercise this right as a black woman without fear of death. She calls out the white girl teacher's assistant, who would be sure to fail her solely on the color of her skin. She blamed all the eighty-seven other white people in the room for this. Calling out the seventeen white women in class whose faces were already mirroring a dear in headlights and spoke about how they would say nothing when he died. Shaming the sixty-nine white men in the room who would side with the police officer over killing her, even when she reached for her phone to call her mom and tell her her only child may not walk away alive from this soon-to-be crime scene. Then she looked at Chuck, the fury in her eyes directed at him, singling him out for being the cop who would kill her. He would stand over her and cry because of how his taking her life would affect him. 

Jasmine would tell Chuck later that day that she had singled him out because he looked like he had broken down from being accused. 

Jasmine sped down the brightly lit highway, exhaustion tugging at her limbs. She allowed herself a fleeting fantasy—walking through the door to a warm meal, Chuck waiting at the table with a smile. But the image dissolved before it could settle, replaced by the familiar weight of disappointment. Then, she could dip into the already-run bubble bath upstairs. A glass of Rosé waiting for her paired with the candle-lit bathroom. Jasmine knew these ideas were next to impossible. So, before she walked through her double-sided dark wood doors, she threw these ideas out of her mind. 

Jasmine walked through the door with the pile of papers she didn't get to finish after getting kicked out of work by the janitor who needed to do their job. She probably would have spent the night in her office if not for that. When Jasmine officially became a partner, she got a pull-out couch for her office. Everyone in the firm would comment on how her office feels at home. Walking into the office resembled walking into grandma's house with a tray of warm cookies and a tight hug waiting for you. Jasmine's office had become more comfortable than the expensive, lavish home she shared with Chuck. Their house was slowly becoming more of a prison to her. As the days go on, she fears she won't escape the shackles Chuck and she created. Every day was another fight, another argument, or another thought unsaid. 

Jasmine had walked into their house in the dead of night. The moon embraced the night sky like Chuck hadn't done to her for years. 

Jasmine couldn't believe her eyes when she walked into their home. She expected to see Chuck sleeping on the couch like a log, regardless of the fact he hadn't done anything during the day. Instead, Jasmine opened the door and was greeted with enough bass to burst her eardrums. In his white briefs was her husband running around the house playing the guitar, worth three months' salary. Jasmine just stood in the foyer, taking in the scenario she had the misfortune of viewing before she could even get a syllable out, thud. 

Jasmine remembered the night Chuck finally met her parents after three years of dating. She wished she could say it wasn't because she was embarrassed by Chuck, knowing how her parents and family would react. 

She couldn't. 

The dinner that night could have been more eventful. The dinner table was quiet, with the sound of forks and knives cutting into the Angus steak Jasmine's dad prepared to impress her boyfriend. The most language spoken through Jasmine and her parents stealing glances at each other. They are not daring to talk about the elephant in the room. This was nothing new to Jasmine; her family was pretending everything was fine and putting on a pretty smile to fool her. 

Chuck sat at the table uneasy, his legs shaking violently under the table all night. He looked at her father eating a steak in a full five-piece suit—the tan of the suit the highlight of the room. Chuck thought of how he could never compare to this man. Chuck couldn't believe Jasmine had allowed him to come to this dinner dressed in polo button-ups and cargo pants. Her father looked ready to perform an acceptance speech at an event celebrating his life's work, while Chuck looked like he was getting willing to try and score a hole-in-one. 

By the end of dinner, the atmosphere inside the house had changed. Everyone had moved from using body language to communicating. Jasmine's dad had begun to pester Chuck about various subjects dads seemed always interested in. Jasmine's mom's laughter filled the kitchen while washing the dishes with Jasmine. Jasmine's mother talks to Jasmine in the kitchen about her relationship.  

"I'm sorry about our reaction to Chuck. We didn't think you would bring a white guy home with you. When we heard about him, we did think his name was a little weird, but we didn't think anything of it." Jasmine's mother let out a nervous laugh to finish her statement. 

Jasmine did not share in this laughter. 

Jasmine had an idea of how her parents would ask, but seeing a scene play out differs from having multiple ideas floating around in her head. "Yeah. I didn't think you guys would act like that, either. I'm shocked and appalled," Jasmine's mother's mouth touching the granite countertop. Her face was in disbelief, wrinkles forming around the sides of her mouth and the corners of her eyes, not being able to think of her daughter speaking to her in this tone, "You guys live in this new grandeur house, pulled out the best china you had, cooked the nicest steak dinner I've ever seen, but despite all that you still managed to ask like an uncivilized ass." Jasmine didn't take a moment to hear her mother's reaction to her statement. 

Jasmine ran through the kitchen with the memories of the horrible dinner and her parents' faces when they saw Chuck's face. There was sadness in their eyes as if they had just been told that their candidate didn't win or that Dad had been accused of being involved in a massive political scandal. They had constantly hammered home that you need to respect everyone regardless of their differences. That white man would always look down on her, and when they looked down, she looked up.

Chuck was taking a tour of the living room with Jasmine's father. He showed off the different political awards he won across his career. Her father placed particular emphasis on the first award he won while he was on the city council. It was just a basic award you could find in the window of every trophy shop. A simple golden cup with a “Thank you for your service, Martin –." Jasmine's father was saying it was his most prized award while he stood in front of a five-shelf glass of different gold and silver awards. 

Jasmine's dad wrapped his arms around Chuck's shoulders, pulling him closer and embracing him. Chuck could now smell the aroma of the red wine they drank earlier on her father's breath—the scent of juicy berries, plump cherries, and sweet plums filling his nostrils. Chuck didn't drink the wine that night. Then, he was three months sober. 

"See, this award is my favorite. It's humble and a reminder of where I came from and what I've done. It's important to remember your roots and stay true to that." Chuck looked at this tall black man while he talked. He understood the emotions coming from him. But before Chuck could reply to this mighty statue of a man, Jasmine flew by and dragged him out of the house. 

"I'm sorry about that. I was scared to introduce you because I didn't know what to expect from them," Jasmine sighed while trying to focus on the road, "But I never expected that reaction from them. They've found themselves in a big new house and have seemed to forget how to act." Chuck studied the night sky and focused on how the stars grouped and stitched themselves together to craft different patterns. He had noticed how one set of stars seemed to form the design of a guitar. He smiled, thinking of how he had successfully secured tickets to his favorite artist's farewell concert. 

"It's fine, Jas. You already told me how they might react," Jasmine started to respond, but Chuck pointed out at the road to stop her, "They reacted more extreme than you thought they would, but it was fine. After dinner, your dad told me how sorry he was for reacting that way. He started going on and on about how I needed to treat his little girl right. Or I would have to deal with him." Chuck let out a hearty laugh, giving Jasmine no choice but to join him. Chuck stared at Jasmine the rest of their way home. He was leaving the beauty of the stars in the sky for the beauty that sat next to him. Leaving the shining bright stars in the skies for the shine that came off from Jasmine's eyes as the night lights bounced off her brown wood eyes. He replaced the fullness of the night sky with the fullness of her jet-black hair. The patterns he saw in the sky he now caught in the patterns her curls made in her hair, him getting lost in the maze they created. He grabbed her hand and held it for the rest of the ride. Chuck never thought he could touch the night sky and admire its beauty up close.

Jasmine watched through her door after a long day of work and couldn't believe what she saw. The house resembled the aftermath of a storm—chaotic, disordered, a far cry from the home it once was. The first floor looked like the aftermath of a storm—trash strewn across the floor, milk splattered in sticky white arcs across the kitchen tiles. Pots and pans teetered in a precarious tower in the sink, threatening to topple at any moment. The package of eggs and bacon was thrown on the kitchen table with raw bits of bacon and broken bits of the pure white eggshells scattered around the stove, table, and floor. The eggs that had fallen out of the eggs remained cooked on the stovetop. 

The living room was even worse for wear. Jasmine had no choice but to walk past it, not to pop a blood vessel when she walked in. The massive glass table that greeted the house's entrance was scattered across the living room floor. Jasmine had to tiptoe across the room to avoid stepping on one of the seemingly million pieces of glass so as not to ruin her newly bought Louboutin's. The African face masks her father gifted her lay on the floor, all but broken. She could only find bits and pieces chucked around like jigsaw puzzle pieces. Jasmine made her way around to the living room and stood before the trophy case she had proudly displayed. Chuck and she shared the case, with him having his first pieces of artwork there and her having different gifts she'd gotten over the years from assorted clients. Jasmine didn't have much attachment to the gifts she had stored in the case. They were more so conversation pieces for her visitors. 

Chuck’s first painting stood out among the polished trophies and gifts—a piece she had come to cherish more than the rest. Its haphazard strokes of white and blue against a black canvas, a childish imitation of the night sky, held a deeper meaning than any award could. He had created it three months after their first visit to her parents. Shortly after that disastrous dinner, Chuck quit his job, drained of all motivation following the conversation with her father. How could he provide for Jasmine when he was still stuck working as a public defender while Jasmine was on track to becoming a partner. 

Chuck's first painting was of a night sky. He took inspiration from Jackson Pollock while making the piece, which shares the childish appearance with the former's works. Chuck used a black canvas and spread the white paint haphazardly over the canvas. The white color was fusing itself into the canvas, creating the night sky illusion. Chuck went into certain spots and put spots of blue paint to give the painting that extra push. Jasmine had always asked him why he wouldn't sell the piece; it was one of his best pieces that most of his regular buyers were always looking to snatch. Jasmine couldn't help but shed a tear in front of the now broken piece. 

Jasmine ascended the stairs with a hollow sensation inside of her. She didn't know what to say to Chuck when she saw him. She walked up the stairs without a thought in her mind. She entered her bedroom to find Chuck lying on the bed like Goldilocks. Jasmine felt a rage that rivaled what the bears felt when they saw Goldilocks in their home. It took her not to throw herself into an attack on Chuck. She resigned herself to not doing that. Instead, she took off her shoes and changed into her house slippers. 

Jasmine crept through the house, methodically sorting her belongings into neat piles. The soft thud of boxes against the floor was the only sound that broke the stillness, while Chuck remained oblivious, his deep sleep undisturbed by her departure. She quietly retrieved boxes from the basement. Jasmine started to pack everything she could in the five boxes she found. As she moved through the house, tears silently fell, the only trace of her presence that night. After packing all she could bring, she began to walk out the door, but something told her to take one last look back. She turned and saw the broken picture of that night sky. She stared at the piece until she could come up with the reason as to why Chuck never sold it. Once she finally realized why Chuck hung onto this seemingly obscure picture, she stood in the foyer over her packed boxes and wept. She truly wished that Chuck's love for her was enough to make her stay. Jasmine ripped out some paper to leave a note attached to that broken canvas. Her note only houses a single word.

Sorry.

Erick Rivers is a writer and artist from North Miami Beach, Florida. His work blends poetry, short stories, and fantasy, often exploring themes of memory, identity, and activism. Erick has served as editor-in-chief of SIX Magazine, a publication from the College of Fine Arts at Florida State University, showcasing student artists' diverse voices. When not writing, Erick enjoys time with his cat, Kit, and playing Magic: The Gathering.