Complicated

Stockholm

Stockholm sits on an archipelago in the Baltic Sea. Sweden's capital city that boasts exactly 14 islands with more than 50 bridges. It is 5,378 miles from where I am currently standing and everything except the last fact I learned from a Google search two minutes ago. There is only one more thing I truly know about Stockholm. Four pieces of my heart currently reside there that I will never get back.

Everything came into focus five years ago just as my world was spiraling into oblivion with the loss of my parents. Nothing prepared me for the events of my 18th year. The normalcy of college prep exams,  applications, entrance essays, interviews, Senior parties, and grad night melted away with one late night knock followed by weeks of condolences and well wishes.

Funerals are the easy part. When the doors shut behind the last guest is when the realization hits that lives have been changed forever and some voices will never echo in your ears again.

My sister was only 14 when they died. I was heading to college and had no means to support either of us right away leaving my aunt and uncle to be her guardian. She was inconvenienced by the change, but in that stage where parents are not cool and the popularity is measured by the number of times you cuss without being caught in first period, little mattered to her. It wasn't until much later that she realized the good parts of having a mom were robbed in the pre-dawn hours of that March morning.

She didn't give two thoughts to us being apart. It wasn't until later that I realized I had already checked out of the family. Looking to find my life's adventure and leave sadness and grieving behind. I blame myself for our relationship being little more than a birthday call now. I should have been there more for her after they died. Opportunity lost.

I stayed in our house that summer, impatiently waiting for the moment that the past became the past and I could stop being the girl that had no family. It didn't occur to me when the door slammed shut behind me at 118 Autumn Crescent every step taken, every accomplishment made would be without a trace of my once supportive family. When there is no one to call you out on your shit, a version of you pushes to the surface that in hindsight is unbearable.

The first weeks of college were a haze of too much salt, too little sleep, and too many nights passed out on any one's couch but my own. Yes, my mother told me her college stories anticipating that I wouldn't make her mistakes my own, but the fact was that she would never know. Neither would my father, or anyone else for that matter so why the hell not?

The nights turned into one party after another and the days were spent in recovery mode trying to re-hydrate and keep up with the excuses I told each professor as to why I couldn't attend freshman studies, college algebra, and biology... again! Grief was always the bottom line. No matter what line I fed them, they let me slide because I was grieving. Funny, they were right all along. I was the one who didn't identify with my loss. I pushed it down to the depths of my inner being far away from any outsider's glare. I hid the fear of being alone with no one to love or love me. I masked the anxiety that I felt with every bat of my eye wondering if  that second was the one that I was going to fall apart.

I didn't tell anyone that when I went to sleep the voice of my mother echoed in my ears with a deafening drone reminding me that the last time we spoke was the last time. It was grief. And I was drowning with no one to give me a second look. I was just existing.

It wasn't until I stumbled upon my sister's favorite  album that my grey world allowed in the slightest glimmer of light. Music used to be my thing-hers too by default. The right melody, a carefully selected violin solo, or a head banging opportunity to express anger or excitement was all it took to pull us from any mood back then.

Before I even touched the record I knew it was a turning point and silently accepted my fate. Taking the vinyl out of its jacket more carefully than I would hold a newborn, I flipped it over to see the familiar blue tint and blue eyes staring back at me. Immediately the memory rushed in hitting me so hard that I stumbled onto the floor and gasped trying to hold in the emotions that had overtaken me. Steadying my shaking hands I crawled to the victrola and waited to hear the flowing notes of the piano and the voice of an angel.