The Moments

Chapter Twenty-Four

JORDAN WILLS

Two days until the funeral, and I've only just started writing the eulogy.

It's like every time I sit down in front of my laptop, my mind goes blank.  My head that is full of so much, that never calms, never quiets, goes absolutely silent as soon as I actually need it. And in the moments that I plead with it, to give me peace and a restful night, it does the opposite.

For example; today I spent an hour just touching the keys on my computer, willing myself to think of an intro, but nothing. Not a damn thing came to me. But now, as I lay in bed, desperately trying to fall asleep, a million different things bounce through my head. And I could get up and write them, but none of these thoughts are ones I would care to share with people. They are the thoughts that feel safer in my head, the thoughts I contemplate sharing, but overthink instead.

Overthinking, I've gotten really good at it. Good enough that I can't sleep.

I get frustrated. After about an hour of tossing and turning, I sit up, vigorously throwing the covers off myself and popping to my feet. It sucks not being able to sleep, sleep is the only relaxation I can find, yet it is elusive these days and it pisses me off.

I open my door and step into the hallway. My mom has an incense burning, which means she is still awake. I don't know what the smell is called, but it is powerful and strong. It permeates my nostrils as I close my bedroom door gently. 

My brother's door is open, but the lights are off in his room. I poke my head in, just to see him. He is fast asleep, clinging a pillow to his chest, breathing softly. His room is clean, everything put away. His desk clear, his shelves organized. 

I never understood how somebody so young could be so tidy, so responsible. He has always been able to comprehend things that even I could barely wrap my head around. I pride myself in having in depth thoughts, but sometimes I think he's surpassed me in that too.

I know I shouldn't, I know it's invasive, but I walk into his room. My steps are light, I move silently. I've never liked my body, all long and scrawny, but I thank it for it's agility and ability to take soft steps.

I approach his desk. A small tin holds various writing materials. Markers, colored pens, pencils. He's always liked doodling. Never been one for sitting down and actually creating a full drawing, like me. He prefers things that he can stop as easily as he started. I do too. Take it to the metaphorical extreme and you might say that I apply the same preference to everything in life, even life itself, but that's not it. Creativity is hard to control, especially if you have a lot of it. It's hard to focus it into one thing, it begs to be used on anything and everything. I think that's why I can't write, because my creativity begs to be put into the form of words, and paintings, and songs, and everything else. It doesn't want to be controlled, it wants to be constant and uncontained.

I glance down at his desk one last time, admiring the neatness. I'm about to turn and leave his room when something catches my eye.

Next to his desk is a small, plastic trashcan. In it is a crumpled ball of lined paper. And trust me, I'm not in the habit of entering people's rooms while they're sleeping and digging through their trash, but I can see my name written on the paper and my curiosity briefly overrules everything else.

I bend over and pick it up, unfolding it, being careful not to wake him up.

Dear dad, I was thinking about you today. Something happened to Jordan's friend Nick that reminded me of you. I wanted to talk to him about it, or maybe mom, but they don't like talking about you. I'm trying to be understanding and mature, but I wish this house wasn't so quiet sometimes. Anyway, I think keeping a diary is stupid, but writing to you feels okay. Rest easy.