A collection of short stories surrounding death. About living with death, coping, not coping, letting go and holding on.
Because at the end of the day, what do we have but memories?
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She stood poised on a mountainside, her auburn hair caught on the cool morning winds.
"I want to build myself a universe," she said. "I want to have my own stars, my own world. Somewhere where nothing is limited, you know?"
I stood behind her, out of her field of vision but unable to let my gaze divert from her, wondering how she could not see how the stars and the world was already bowing to her, laying themselves at her feet. I did that too, but I didn't tell her that. Maybe if I had, things would be different now.
†
I realized it recently, that she could hold the whole world in her hands and still not be happy. Still, she would want more. Maybe that's why I decided to come here, after such a long time.
I'm married now, and I think she would be happy for me. She would probably hate my wife though. She would call her boring, shallow, too easy to read. But I suppose that doesn't matter. I'm here to let her go, not take her perspective.
†
She's disappeared from the cliff, and I'm alone. Watching the spot where I remember her standing, when we were young, when I loved her and she loved the world. It's hard for me to move, to get up from the place where I'm sitting. It feels like my joints have found home and are unwilling to leave it. I understand them.
After a while, I begin to walk towards the house. There were so many memories from here, it was almost overwhelming. Even the sound of my feet on the gravel path called up memories from a time long gone. How many times before have I walked up this path, rushing to get to her front door? More than I could count or even remember. I don't think I want to remember either - it would feel so wrong to reduce her to numbers.
The porch is the exact same as I remember it, cold stone in front of a new-looking white door. Everything looked so preserved, like a sick museum to her and to what happened. I search for the key in my pocket, the only thing she left me. The key to the house.
For the final years, she was the only one who lived there. Besides me, occasionally. Her parents were both missing at that point, presumed dead or having escaped somewhere off the grid. The amazing part about it all was how little she cared, how well she took it. She took the news like it was an accepted fact, in a eerily matter-of-fact kind of way. I cried for her, but she just nodded and accepted her new reality. Now, looking back, that should have been my first warning that something was very, very wrong. But I was too blinded by loving her that I failed to see her from any other perspective. I turn the key, and the door opens, smoothly and without a sound.
I'm struck by how much this place feels like her. Everything from the scent that now permeates the walls to the way the old newspapers are still left out on the kitchen table. As if she had left in a hurry - and maybe she had. I look around, and realize I'm not here to remember her. I'm here to figure out what happened to her.
