I get on her orange bike. The cruser with the old school breaks. I pedal slowly down the lane. I’m scared.
Scared to face it. I go around the corner, already the Coppertone mixing
with tears. I pass the corner mart
where kid allowances bought sweet tarts and gum. I follow behind my dad.
We enter. Pass
a grandmother, a father, a soldier. Old flowers, laminated rain proof cards, and
worn stuffed animals make up tiny shrines. The sun hits so perfectly. A plane passes.
We get off the bikes, and look right.
It’s the first time I’ve been back since it happened. And seeing her name brings it all back. It’s like your hymen of grief gets
ripped open and it hurts all over again.
You look over at your Dad. Noting the empty spot where his name will go someday. Neither can speak.
All you can do is touch it. Run your finger over the name, the date, the raised words and hope that you can feel
something human. Anything. But you can’t. Tiny words escape your chocking breath
like ‘why,’ ‘how,’ ‘fuck.’ Words your heart thinks you’re saying for the first
time, but ones your brain knows are answerless. So you just shut up and sob.
She’s everywhere.
Not just in pictures lining the hurricane strong walls or the silly old timey pictures you took as a family, but in the air
the minute my plane landed, in the drive past the beach where she caught us
girls sneaking out with boys, in my father’s distant eyes. My brain fucks with
me, thinking she’s just at the grocery store picking up garlic for her famous
fish marinade. Or in the back
bedroom throwing on her shoes so we can head to the gym. At night I lay in my
twin bed, like I did as a kid, thinking I hear her laughing with my Dad through
the wood walls. But it’s not. It’s nothing. Just a dull void where her voice used to be. I swear late late late last night I
heard something. A rustle around
of something. A woosh through a
hallway. I don’t know. Is it
something or does my brain just want it to be something?
Key West is still my true paradise. Where this Midwestern
kid got lost in coral reef explorations, baby oil, and shell jewelry. Where
wine cooler sips and body glove bikinis made memories to last for
memories. I was a lucky kid with a
family that played hard. Ya know, I still am a lucky kid. And cancer can’t take any of it.
So I sit here now.
This time without any buffers. Alone. Feeling every bit of pain deep in my bones. All the times you wished you called more, or went to
visit, or weren’t a moody fuck, just circles around your head like cartoon
stars and zigzags. The anger, the rage, the injustice of losing people too
soon is a sickening pit that nighttime makes worse. I think back for a second to an old friendship I had with someone where
recently I heard she talked shit about me. It's so funny how mad you can get about all that stuff. How it feels so real. How much time spent rolling in the
details of it all.
But right now,
as I type and tear, I realize THESE moments, THESE raw fucking sad
moments, are what builds true grit. It makes you stand straight in auditions when a producer won’t
look your way or when some ‘somebody’ makes you feel like a no ‘nobody.’ When someone
passes on your script or someone else doesn't like your eye color, you can shrug it off and
walk out head high. This grief,
this REAL shit, is like a trump card that you throw down in the chaos of
everyday life and say ‘Ha ha. See life? I know the secret. And none of this shit
matters.’ Because what really
matters, at least today, late at night, tucked away in the Southern
most part of The United States, with her expired face cream on, a Harry Potter
notebook and a crumbled yoga schedule from the local place on my bedside, and some
beat up flip flops tossed about---for ME---is human relationships. Building and cherishing the ones I do
have and not chasing the ones I don’t.
Call your parents.
Ask them how they are. Tell
them you like them a lot.
They really aren’t here forever.
Elbow and Send.
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