Liana Solar

Chapter two

"...again, we offer our sincerest condolences...too young...only twenty... funeral arrangements...", the policeman droned on. None of it was registering, all of it was in one ear out the other. "I'm very sorry Ms Ylaro". Marco is gone. It's been three days since the... incident. Three days since Marco ran into a burning house, never to come out. Aunt Louise and I have been at a loss for words since. We're both too tired to speak, let alone arrange a funeral.

Once the tag team of cops and hospital staff (and people from a funeral home?) leave the house, Aunt Louise and I are left alone together. Left to wallow in our thoughts, we sit silently in the dark, not deigning to look at each other. The building grief and shame clings to the air we breath. Sorrow and pain bask together in the very essence of the living room. Sirens go off in the distance, and somewhere a dog barks. The one sound missing is the slamming of the car's doors, meaning Marco coming home.

I want to comfort her, but how? Aunt Louise has always been the kind of person to "suck it up and move on" after a loss- but not until after she checks the tarot cards, of course. After I had lost my first goldfish to "over feeding" (eight year old me didn't even know that was possible), Aunt Louise's immediate response was: "The stupid thing didn't know when to stop". Though that didn't comfort third grade me, I learned to accept her coping methods, embrace them, even. I know now that she didn't mean that my fish was stupid (though she might have), but that his death was not my fault.

Marco, though, had a different approach. He was always so caring, and was my closest friend. He knew how much I loved that goldfish, so for my ninth birthday he gave me a framed picture of him. Rest in pie, the bottom read. The joke really wasn't that funny, but it had made me momentarily forget my sadness about the fish. I wish Marco was here. He would know what could help me through this.

This loss, of course, doesn't even compare to the fish. None of the losses I've experienced compare to the agony of losing Marco.

I go to the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove, not even needing to ask what kind of tea Aunt Louise wants. Chamomile tea, with two shots of clover honey. Setting the tea cups down on the coffee table, I sit on the floor opposite the couch she sits on. The silence stretches on for what feels like years until she suddenly blurts:

"This is my fault," running her hands through her graying hair, she looks older than ever. The tears she refuses to shed in front of me build up behind her eyes, fogging up her glasses. "This is all my fault". She won't look at me. She keeps her head down until I speak. As if maybe whatever I say will make it all go away. I wish.

"No, no no... Aunt Louie it isn't. You couldn't possibly have predicted Marco running into the fire. This isn't on you", I say, letting the tears fall.

"Now that's not entirely true now, is it?", she says giving me a sad smile. "If you don't mind dear, I need some time to myself...", meaning she's doing a reading. And reading the newspaper. And consulting her rocks.

"Of course. I'm going for a walk".