lost

I went to your mom’s house. Because that’s what people do. They make the effort to visit in times like these. She greeted me at the door with a smile and a hug. I knew she was smiling simply for the company. I’m sure she was lonely, despite the fact that you moved out a few years earlier. Her kind of lonely wasn’t something one gets used to.

We made small talk in the doorway, and that was when I noticed you at the top of the stairs. In a t-shirt and shorts; Umbros or Champions. You were lounging. Totally at home. And I was stunned to see you there. You ran down the carpeted stairs, smoothly, and when you got to me you enveloped me in an embrace.

At your request I followed you downstairs, to your room, just as your mom was heading out the door. She called out a goodbye, waved and closed the door. “So, how is your mom doing?” I asked you when she’d gone. “She’s fine,” you told me, “She’s just stressed because we are going on a vacation and she has so much to do before we leave.”

You seemed to know what was going on, yet I was still confused. You lead me to your room, where I sat on one of two twin beds. I didn’t get comfortable; instead I perched on the edge. “So… how are you?” You turned from your desk, what appeared to be too small for you, left over from Junior High/High School days, “Good. I just have a lot of studying and work to do with these exams coming up.” Something was wrong. It just didn’t make sense. You were finished with school years ago.

I stood up from the bed, just as two of our other friends came into the room. They jumped up and down on the beds like monkeys. One would go up as the other was coming down. I wasn’t watching them but could see them in the reflection of the mirror.

We had a conversation through the mirror, both of us not facing each other, but the wall.

I asked you, “Do you know, Steph, that you died two months ago?”

gone away

Something is stuck. Somewhere between my diaphragm and my throat, but closer to my throat. Its edges billow up every now and then and catch me short of breath. It’s been there for months, waiting for its release.

I was sure I’d gotten it all out months ago. That the crying and the screaming would’ve rid me from this sinking feeling. But it remains. Tear soaked pillows in the middle of the night, and sad songs have done nothing to ease this pain. Pretending you’re traveling in some far off land has done nothing to comfort me.

You’re just not here anymore.

dandelion clock

She’s not even dead yet and her possessions are already scattered among her family. She has given away objects she cannot take with her; physical memories we are supposed to replace with our own. A 50th birthday present, a Christmas gift; once treasured pieces, now left to collect dust among the belongings we cling to.

She is preparing for her death, which is inevitable. Erasing herself from the earth; bills, bank statements, greeting cards are all being shredded. Anything personal, anything that may be stolen, or duplicated. Anything she doesn’t need before she dies. Sentimentality isn’t something she is concerned with at the moment. Cleaning up her life before it is over, that is what consumes her. Tying up those loose ends; selling her house and her car, finding a home for her loyal and beloved dog. Her death is all business.

All her worldly possessions have been split up, quartered and adopted. She’s given her life away before it even ends. Her death will descend, not unexpectedly, among those of us left living, and we will go on, slowly at first, afraid to laugh, or smile. I wonder when we will start to see her belongings as our own. When it will stop feeling like we’ve just made room temporarily. Not permanently. For life.