I Am Cameron

The Beginning

I sigh as I sit on the grass. It was now about four in the afternoon. The lawyers had left around two and I made my way to Gran. Her tombstone wasn't anything spectacular. It wasn't nearly as colorful as she was, nor did it stand out very well in the cemetery. It was as if she wanted to blend in with everyone else, as if she was saying we're all equal in death.

~

ANASTASIA GEORGIA MONAYE-BENNING

OCTOBER 14, 1952- APRIL 21, 2019

Proverbs 3: 5-6

Trust in yourself as well.

~

That's definitely something she would say. I'm a complete stranger to myself though. How can I trust someone I've never met?

"You look just like your mother," Martin speaks as he comes and squat down in front of Gran's tombstone next to me. I don't say anything to the man who I'm supposed to call father. Besides, he should know by now that I look exactly like him.

"You don't have to talk to me. I get it. I'm not going to randomly show up and act like the man of the house. That's not even my personality. I just want you to know that Mom could never stop talking to you. You made her last few months memorable. I just want to say thank you for that," he says. I look over to him as he gives me a small smile that reflected my own.

"It's hard trying to get a day off and come see everyone. It's a miracle that I could get Marie to release me so I could come to the beneficiary hearing. I knew Mom wasn't going to give me anything. I'm more than sure she just wanted us to meet," he laughs. It was wholesome and full, something I've yet to accomplish.

"I don't blame her. It's about time we met," he says. He extends his hand out to me to take. "I'm Martin Alexander Benning, working in the International Section of the Peace Corp."

My surprise was obvious as I took his hand and shook it.

"Cameron Alexander Benning. Artist. Writer, well kinda. That's all I got," I say with a shrug. Martin shrugs finally standing up.

"That's more than enough. You're only 18. You have time to figure everything out. Nothings set in stone for you," he advices, sounding a lot like Gran. All of a sudden, Martin laughs.

"Damn, I'm starting to sound just like you mom," he says, his eyes tearing up. "Sorry I couldn't be here a lot. I wish I could've taken you overseas with me. You would have loved Yemen."

His words spark my own sadness. He misses her too.

I couldn't stay around this overwhelming feeling of regret and loss, so I take my car back to the house. Walking in the door felt different from the first time I walked into this house. I remember the warmth and the undeniable sense of family you could see at every corner of the house. The pictures were still here as a reminder, but it didn't feel like the same home. It felt like a house. I patronize myself for not listening to my advice earlier on in life. Don't attach labels.

I head to my room just like everyone else. All those rooms I had to pass felt unfamiliar. I open my door and for a second everything feels just right. I don't know why, but it does. I haven't been in here since prom night. It didn't feel right to sleep in a room that was given to me by someone who can't be a part of my life anymore. I mean, technically, this house is mine. That doesn't mean that I want it. I'd rather have Gran back. These small traces and memories aren't enough.

I head to my bed, needing to sleep literally everything away. Before I can even flop down onto the bed, I notice a neatly folded letter lying on my pillow. I recognized the handwriting immediately. It's not a font I would forget. I pick up the note, exhaling deeply before unfolding and reading it.