Open When I'm Gone

1. Tommy.

The lights are too dim. It's infuriating. She hated the dark, she would have wanted every light to be on.

Her coffin was a dark grained redwood. She would have hated that too. She wouldn't have wanted her dad to spend that much money when, once she was buried, no one would care if she was in redwood or a wooden box. I always loved that about her. She didn't care about anything trivial, she just lived in the moment.

The pastor they picked to speak is pitiful, talking about things that didn't really matter. Like how she was president of the debate team, and how she was the manager of the local snack shop in town, but that wouldn't have mattered to her. They should have been talking about how much she loved children, always wanting at least four of her own when she grew up. Or how passionate she was about theater, and how wonderful her voice was. Like a nightingale, our theater teacher remarked once. Or maybe the way she always stuck her tongue between her teeth when she smiled too big. Or how she always gave the best unmatched hugs that made you feel so loved. Or that if you saw her in the morning, she would smell so strongly of lilies that it was as if you were walking through a field of flowers, in the best way possible. Or that she had a stuffed teddy growing up who would permanently reside on her bed when not by her side through every single surgery, hospital trip, appointment, and vacation since she was seven until the day she died. The way she always knew if something was wrong, even if you were an expert at hiding how you felt. Or maybe that, the month after she was diagnosed, she finally decided she wanted to have her first kiss. She snuck into my house at 2am that night knowing I would be up, kissed me, smirked in that way that was so familiar, and then disappeared back into the night.

Like how in this moment, as she lies in that coffin, I could almost pretend that she's just sleeping. Like any moment she'll come running down the stairs, laughing as she jumps into my arms. Just like she used to.

I want to scream, I want to cry. I want to run and run and never stop. I want the tightness in my chest to go away so it can't remind me.

"Simon, can you promise me something?" Her voice floated through the silence, through the darkness.

"Of course, anything."

I rolled over to face her, her skin a pale pallor color in the dim lighting.

"Can you promise me that when I die-"

"If." I insisted. "If you die, which you won't."

Her sigh is heavy, weighted in a way I don't remember.

"Can you promise me you won't grieve me forever? That you'll move on after I'm gone?"

Her words feel like a punch straight to the gut. How could she think I wouldn't grieve for her? She's my best friend! She's... She's my everything. I don't know what I would do without her.

"No, Eddy. I... I don't think I can... I'm sorry."

She sat up in her stiff hospital bed, her shoulder brushing mine, looking at me dead in the eyes, a melancholy expression on her face.

"Simon," She sighed. "I'm not saying that you have to move on immediately. I'm just saying that there is no point in grieving forever. It won't bring me back. And... Simon, all I've ever wanted for you was pure, unbridled happiness, and just because I'm gone, doesn't mean that you can't be happy." Her breathing was so harsh, so tired. "I don't need you to forget, Simon," At this, she cupped my hand in hers. "I just need you to find someone who loves you and cherishes you as much as I do, and who will take care of you the way I never could."