I stare at the photo board in my mind. Photos of a you I didn’t
know churn through my brain.
Young, happy, hopeful; beautiful.
Somehow as I look at these pictures, they don’t reconcile with
the ones that I have filed in my memory.
Older, exhausted, scared; every bit as beautiful.
There wasn’t one picture of you the way I remembered you.
Not one visual representation of your struggle, your fight. It didn’t exist.
Was it real?
I try to remind myself that hopeful pictures are for the
living. My thoughts these days are for the dying and the dead.
That wasn’t you in that coffin. It was a stranger not the
girl I shared cancer with. You would’ve hated the lipstick. I did. I’m not sure
what I expected to see there. Maybe one last glimpse of your soul? One last set
of wheelies through the hospital halls or one last night curled in bed watching
Roseanne. What I saw nothing but a bizarre caricature version with a sickly
pink nail polish that I will never forget.
You would’ve loved all of the people. The ones gathering for
you. Tears were streaking down the faces of the many. Stories were being passed
around and savored like a joint. I couldn’t listen. The screaming in my head
was just too loud. I sat down before my legs betrayed me. Condolences floating by
as I sat. “She’s no longer in pain” “She’s with Jesus now” “She’s happy.”
Grown ups say stupid shit.
Your teenage daughter flops down next to me and asks me if I’m
alright. No. We whisper huddled in our guestless sanctuary like we are in some
sort of twisted secret club. Her teacher is an asshole, her boyfriend is needy.
She looks beautiful in her dress. You would be so proud. She makes me laugh.
Hard to do these days.
I drive home in a fog. I want to just keep on driving but I don’t
have anywhere to go. I go home. I sit in the driveway with my dread. How will I
face them? Will they see what I know, that part of me died with you? Will they
notice? I hope they don’t.
My phone chirps. It’s you. Your daughter has your old cell
phone and she’s texting me. Our last conversation pops up. Your last written
words to me and I smile. It is you. I contemplate changing out your name for
hers and then I don’t.
I want today to be over. For people to stop asking if I’m
alright. I’m not. I want the noise of the living to go away so that I can focus
on the feral scream that lies beneath the surface, bubbling, threatening to
unleash.
It is 6:00am. My syrupy-sugar coffee is cold. The world is
still asleep. Relief floods me. I’m not quite ready to let in the light.
Darkness seems much more dependable. Comforting even.
In less than 6 hours you will be in the ground. I’m worried
because you get cold. The thin dress you were in will not be enough to keep you
warm. Where are your blankets? I need to scream at someone to give you a
blanket. Don’t they know??? I think they should know but they don’t. This is my
detail not theirs.
I think forward to the reception that is going to happen in
your house after the service. Of Charlie barking at anyone that crosses the
threshold. That crazy fucking dog who finally agreed to let me in your house
without biting my face off. Will he bark at everyone today? I would.
I imagine the urge to slink off to your room and curl up
beside you will be overwhelming. I will try not to. I’ll remind myself to smile
as people talk and laugh over some potluck mystery food. I won’t.
I’ll stay as long as I can watching people come and go and
then I too will pack up to leave. Not wanting to say good bye. Wanting to stay
frozen in life where you left me. Lost,
scared, alone. Grieving.
I will look back at your house as I’m driving away. At your
car in the driveway and pretend for a moment that I will see you soon. That I
will be able to tell you about my latest scare and you will tell me it’s going
to be all right. I won’t believe you. I’ll rub the scar on your head and
promise you it isn’t that bad, that you really can’t see it. You won’t believe
me. I’ll cry.
“I love you, Leigh” that I’ll believe. We said it enough. We
said it in holding hands while the nurse tried to find a good vein. We said it
in late night texts and in end of conversation words. In eye rolls and naughty hospital behavior.
Today I will say goodbye. Not to you. To that body in a box
version of you. I will stand there with the others and try to behave. Try not
to let out the scream that has become the background noise of my life. But if a
tiny wail escapes me I know you will forgive me. You will understand.
Your husband once gave me an out on your dying. He
understood that your dying would cause me pain, would raise my own fears. It
was ok if I didn’t come around. I didn’t take that out and I’m glad.
I shared more with you in dying than I have shared with most
in life and I wouldn’t have missed it for world. I love you my beautiful, strong,
amazing friend. I truly love you. See you soon.
