Flash Fiction - 7 Dreams

Only a few words passed. A courtesy here and there. A word or two inquiring about work, about family. Work was moving on well. Family was okay. That was all. There was no asking what kind of work one did, or how many children. No one had the courage to delve that deep.

So for the most part, there was silence, too many spaces in between, even as we gathered, at the exact same corner, around the same table. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, not if life had turned out as we had each planned.

Damning evaluations lingered in the air. Each of us knew, had heard something about each other, some cause for pride, others cause for shame. So and so had only divorced last year. Another had lost his job a year before. Plus so many other rumors.

Here we had the opportunity to ask if the hearsay was true. We could congratulate or empathize with each other. Offer a word of encouragement again, and say it is well. But we didn’t.

Was it out of guilt, of failed promises to ‘keep in touch’ that we had made 6 years ago? Was it the fear to talk about failed plans, unfulfilled dreams that 7 of us had shared in the days when we would sit right here? 7 dreams, we used to call them, to tell of our collective aspirations beyond College.

Then the future was in our hands. We would craft it to do our bidding. Here we had talked about futures, about our dream husbands and dream jobs; about the places we would go to, the people we would meet. The life we would live. Everything was within reach.

And then the years went by. A call here, an accidental meet there, and the bonds somewhat weakened. Now 6 years later and here we are. At the exact same place where it all started. And we are like strangers, who had never once laughed, and teased each other about choices, and set ultimatums.

“Don’t bite what you can’t chew!”

“Just give me 3 years!”

“Ah, well…. I wish you long life, so you will be the ones to testify on my behalf”

Promises, timelines were set. And 3 years became 4, and 5 and more, and promises never came to pass, or did they? Why then was there not the enthusiasm to talk, to reminisce of those days? Was the reminder too painful? Was sharing the experience of one or two of us whose life could at last be rated a ‘success’ judgment of the rest?

All of these were probably to blame, but maybe not, maybe they were just excuses. Because all the while that we sat, there was this empty chair at the end of the table, just next to the Window. To it was thrown a stolen glance, every once in a while, and it wasn’t without a sigh.

Klara was the glue that held us together. When she passed on 3 years later, the group’s center gave way. The promise was to always re-group every year, and see how each was doing, encourage, support. This was the first without her, and how pathetic!

It was there she used to sit; there she was sat that farewell day, when she asked: What will happen when one day the first of us is no more, and there is an empty space that cannot be filled?