proof.
a piece of writing that didn't make it to class
In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun.
—Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles—
(Author note: I had to turn in several writing pieces for uni last week, and this was one that didn’t make the cut. I thought I’d share it here.)
When Jim died at 22, I thought I’d met grief.
At the very least, I thought grief had met me when the cop pulled me over after the memorial service. I was speeding, but my friend died, I explained.
He arched an eyebrow and made direct eye contact. I looked right into his eyes.
Go ahead, ask. Go ahead, ask if this is true. I had proof.
I could pull out the funeral home flyer. Or maybe the history of frantic SOS pages (it was 1999) my best friend had sent in those first few days. Or I could tell the cop about the way I begged my boss to let me see Jim at the hospital, and when no one would answer my calls, a co-worker who was studying at the shop put his books away and took over for me.
I didn’t flinch. And he believed me.
I cried for weeks. I broke up with my boyfriend. I moved in with the guy who covered my shift during the dying days. I visited Jim’s grave every week, even before the headstone was delivered.
But grief has a funny shape, as though it shifts in color and texture if you notice it for too long. It doesn’t want to blend into the background, but grief wants you to stare in horror, melt to the ground, forget and remember everything.
It used to be the date that caught my attention. Or the scent of Jim’s cigarettes. Or the tributes on Facebook. Or the time I drove around and a song from the Pulp Fiction soundtrack came on. I didn’t have the convertible we drove around town in (it rusted within months).
But I could feel myself back in that car, with the ragtop down and the summer breeze carrying our Marlboro drags along for the ride.
Grief is sticky like that. Arriving uninvited by me, but love RSVP’d for these moments the moment I met his blue eyes.
To Jim. To the Jims you know and miss.
xo
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An eloquent truth. Your profs are missing out by not getting to read this.