It took six months to get you to tell me anything about that night, and even then you kept the details to a minimum. I know you don't like to cry in front of anyone, but sometimes it's what you need. Especially in cases like this, where you just don't know how to let go.
.
.
.
My family planned the funeral, getting in touch with whomever could be reached from your side.
The funeral itself was a blur, I don't even remember getting to the church. At some point I was up at the pulpit, reading directly off of note cards. I don't remember what I said. Afterward, at the wake, I parrot the same response to everyone to talks to me, even my best friends, I can't see how they could possibly know what I'm going through. They can't. They haven't felt this before. The feeling of checking to see if I have a message from you, or wanting to tell you about something that happened, I actually get to my text inbox before I remember. I spend the better part of the afternoon trying to come up with some excuse to leave, sure that if I'm offered condolences by one more person I'll snap. What I remembered about the service you would have liked, it was short and sweet, only a couple of people spoke, at the wake there were a lot of cheesy jokes, most of them were heard from you and passed on, but I couldn't be around it anymore. I slip away when Scott has gone out for more ice, my mom is busy with some guests in the back yard, I think my sisters are in the kitchen, and I just got the last pitying look I can stand. I make my way out to my car as inconspicuously as possible, tearing off my tie as I speed down the road, I just need to get to my apartment. I blow right through a stop sign and it's not the first time that I wonder if I should bother going ahead with anything... There's a red light coming up. Why should I bother? With anything? What's the point now?
'You promised me, stupid.' I screech to a stop at the light, hanging just over the limit line. I know I didn't really hear you, but it was so real I can nearly see the scowl on your face. I have to do this. I promised.
When I'm finally back at my place, I shed layers of clothing on the way to the bedroom, leaving a trail of Armani in my wake until I flop onto our bed.
I shift around, burrowing under the covers when my shoulder bumps into something under the pillow, under *your* pillow. A book; some weird, dystopian find of yours called Station Eleven. You'd been bugging me to read it for weeks before...
"You'll like it! It's about an actor... who dies." You would chuckle as I rolled my eyes at you. 'I still think you would like it.'
That voice in my head again. I guess you've become by conscience. A slip of paper is peeking out from the top of the book, you always used whatever was closest when you needed a bookmark. I saw you use a pair of scissors one time, then there was that time you nearly cancelled your credit card before I could convince you to check your latest book. This time it was a shopping list:
Bananas, apples, lettuce, tomatoes, peaches (on sale), conditioner, granola (That weird kind he likes)
I still don't understand what it was about my granola that grossed you out so bad,
'It was soggy cardboard, babe.'
"Please, just because it doesn't make you go into a diabetic coma doesn't mean it can be classified as cardboard..." I'm about to continue my argument when it dawns on me, I'm talking to myself. Wonderful.
I settle back on our bed, hugging your pillow to me like a stuffed animal as I turn the book over in my hands; finally opening to the first page.
