Left Over

Manna for the Soul

Poptarts. Room temperature, strawberry Poptarts, will be the only thing I am able to hold down for the next few days.

At least that's something. In fact, many small things have improved by the second day succeeding the disaster.

I have beaten my writer's block and have been working tirelessly on my eulogy. The realization that helped me get going was that I do not need to write about what Tadashi did, but rather who he was. Everyone who attends the ceremony should hopefully already have known my brother- there is no reason for me to educate them about him.

I have also found it progressively easier to leave my room. I have spent the morning aiding Aunt Cass in the café. I know that it is crucial that we work hard the few days we have the opportunity to be open this week, as funerals aren't cheap and we obviously can't open up shop during that time. Mostly, I help because I hate feeling useless. Before now, I felt very much as if I was sick with an awful virus and couldn't possibly manage to do anything at all. It is one of the most disheartening feelings in existence.

Communicating with more than one other human has proven to be both detrimental and useful in my healing process. Oddly enough, it is not the familiar faces that make me feel better, but the complete strangers. Every time one of my brother's friends, a neighbor, a regular customer, or anyone who knows that we are Tadashi's family walks in, they coddle me and ask if I'm alright and give me advice on dealing with something they don't understand. They tell me he's not really gone, they tell me it might help if I talk about it, and they tell me scores of other things that aren't true and cause my mouth to twist with distaste. Being reminded by another party of the hell I'm going through is the very last thing I want or need. I can recall that my brother was burned alive just fine on my own, thank you. As much as talking to those people hurts, it is true that I need contact with society. Just not the portion of society that is aware of my situation.

I wait on an elderly woman sitting alone at a table for two. Her head is tilted towards the window slightly, as if it is resting softly on a pillow, and her wrinkly lips are relaxed into a calm smile. Her slanted eyes come close to being completely shut when she sees me approaching and grins broadly. "Can I get you anything, ma'am?"

"Oh, I think I'll just have some tea, thank you. Isn't it a lovely day?" she replies.

"We have several teas today. Green, a Chai Oolong blend, Raspberry, and English Breakfast," I inform her, posed with my notepad and pencil at the ready. I follow her gaze to the bright sky and quiet street beyond the glass and my stance softens. It's beautiful outside.

"Bring me whichever is your favorite, dear," she responds. I bob my head down quickly in a bow and flash her a grin before I turn and head for the kitchen. I have great respect for those older and wiser than me. She has most likely accumulated more knowledge on pain in her life than anyone else in the café. She does not treat me as an individual in need of nursing. She comments on the quality of the weather. She reminds me that, for most of the world, it is, indeed, a lovely day. I silently thank her for her priceless update on what life is like for the general population.

There is one subcategory in the group of "other humans I've come in contact with" who I am unsure how I feel about. These are the complete strangers who sympathize with our family. These are the authors of the newspaper article on the fire. These are the customers who read said article over a cup of coffee and shake their heads in sorrow, unaware that the "beloved brother and aunt whom Tadashi has left behind" are behind the counter, merely a few paces away. These are the surprising number of news-savvy Good Samaritans who have already written us sympathy letters and included some spare change, who recognize us upon entering the shop and offer their condolences. Granted, they, too, perpetually remind me of my situation and focus on the negative. But they do not know me well enough to coddle me. With shame, I admit to taking pleasure in learning that my present position is so unfortunate that even unbiased parties recognize it and take pity on me. It's akin to an "I told you so" feeling, except there is no one to tell. It's human nature to want people to understand.