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But that doesn’t mean I don’t still care about him, it doesn’t mean I don’t want the best for him. And right now . . . right now I think maybe what’s best for him doesn’t include me.
Two months after dad’s funeral, I was so angry I couldn’t be at home. I couldn’t stand to see all the pictures in the house, or to see Mom cry. I didn’t know how to handle it, so I just left.
I stayed with Allie for a few days, but that also became too unbearable. The way her mom and dad looked at me with all that pity in their eyes was just too much. So, I found myself here, at the cemetery, staring at my dad’s grave. I yelled at the headstone, and I yelled at the sky until my voice was hoarse and I just collapsed on the ground and sobbed.
Then I picked myself up and walked back to my car. A groundskeeper was there, and when I walked up the hill, he nodded at me. He was probably in his sixties, and he gave me a sidelong glance.
“Who’d you lose?” he asks.
“My father.”
“When?”
“Two months ago.”
He nods, and leans against the shovel he’d been using to get the snow off the cement.
“You have to let it out, the grief. Some people yell, some sing, some write, some fight. It doesn’t matter what outlet you use, as long as you get it out of your system on the days it overwhelms you.”
“What happens when you don’t let it out?”
The man shrugged. “You die too, but in a different way than the one you lost.”
“What do you mean?”
“Grief and loss are not things you ever really get through, but you can learn to accept them. To take the pain in one hand and the joy in the other. It’s a give and take, like the tide. But some people don’t know how to get past the pain. Some people drown in it.”
When I first saw Wyatt today, and as I watched him disappear down the hill, I saw him drowning.
I pull out the notebook I’ve been carrying around with me for a few days. And I’ve been filling it with whatever words and emotions I need to let out. It just feels good having the words out of my head and on paper. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m feeling until I see it in black in white.
After a while, I start to get a little worried. Wyatt still hasn’t come back up the hill, and he was very hungover. What if he passed out or something? I huff, toss my notebook back in my car, and start to walk down the hill. I stop when I see him sitting in front of his mom’s tombstone with his knees pulled up to his chest—his chin resting on them. And, despite my best intentions, I take a few steps until I hear him.
“I’m so screwed up, Mom. If you could see me now, you would be so disappointed. But the sad thing is, I don’t even know how to fix who I’ve become. I don’t remember a time I didn’t feel empty. I . . . I miss you. I miss your hugs. I miss the way you moved the hair off my forehead and smiled at me. I’m starting to forget the lines of your face and your favorite jokes and what you smelled like. And that terrifies me. It’s almost been six years, and I’m already forgetting things.”
My heart aches for him. It aches at the way his voice cracks and he rests his forehead on his knees.
“Why didn’t you fight harder, Mom? Why’d you let go? Willa was fifteen.Fifteen. Dad didn’t even know how to do his own laundry or how to handle all those teenage hormones. And I . . .” His voice cracks again and I feel awful for intruding on such a vulnerable moment, but my feet are glued to the ground. “. . . I broke, Mom. It’s been almost six years and I still haven’t figured out how to put myself back together.”
He’s quiet and I finally take a few steps toward him. He lifts his head and sighs, leaning back on the palms of his hands.
“I guess it’s only fair for you to eavesdrop, considering how we met and all the other times I’ve snuck up on you talking to your dad,” he says.
I sit down next to him and pick up a blade of grass.
“Your son smells like throw up and beer. Be thankful you can’t smell it,” I inform the headstone.
Wyatt chokes on a laugh and I smirk at him. His eyes are puffy and red, and I don’t think it’s from the hangover. At least, notonlyfrom the hangover. I look away from him and back to the tombstone.
“Do you feel better?” I ask him.
“Not really, no.”
I smirk. “Yeah, I didn’t think you would.”
He shakes his head at me and looks up at the sky. I pick at my blade of grass and let him sort through his thoughts.
“Is this what you do? When you feel yourself start to spiral?” he wonders aloud.
