The Return of Winter

Sullen January just began – the harsh winter air and the rainy days that pitter patter the windows, the wind yelling loudly like newborn babies. At that moment, I felt whistling, cold air scratching me in the face. I felt blood saunter its way down my chin and onto my chest; a pit of confusion in my stomach.

And yet, I wondered often how she coped, as I sat, staring blankly in the distance at absolutely nothing. If I felt this bad now, I couldn’t even imagine how she must have felt.

How she felt when she stared longingly off into the distance – a place no one but her knew the location of. How she felt when she was alone, tied down into her bed. A portal to another universe she only had the access to. She had been sick for a long time; it was easy to get used to our new “normal” or whatever the hell our lives had become. It left us all feeling drained at the end of every week, feeling like it would always be this way.

Every time I glanced at her face, pink tinted cheeks peered back at me. A healthy flush and the cold touch of her skin. It was like her body was a hollow shell of her existence. Curiosity stung at me; it happened in waves. I couldn’t bear her tiring thoughts melting into my mind, the calm tone of her voice as it rang through my ears and out of my memory, burning the crawling liquid bubbling in the corners of my eyes. I stifled my emotions and it was the bare minimum, but as I glanced at my dad and his expression, I could no longer hold back. It all erupted like a fiery volcano, spilling into the crevices of my hands; my red palms that were grasping at nothing, holding on, seeking a solid surface to come back to reality.

We both had prepared ourselves for this day. But it never got any easier, looking at her cold body on the table. Her arms were crossed and pinned together. I couldn’t even hold her hand or caress them. I knelt down and hugged her, crying. I felt her cold skin against my hands and braided a section of her hair for her. It was knotted and unbrushed. She would have been pissed that no one did anything with the strands she loved so much.

She’d be disappointed in my sorrow. The wretched swollen eyes I bore all day and night. The crimson blotchy spots on the apples of my face from constant pulling on skin with harsh clothing. The indescribable sinking feeling, the twisting of my gut. I yearned for it to come to an end, but the bitter reality set into me in waves; the ocean crashing through me and building to a tsunami. It was too much to bear. Forced to bear. And luckily, the captivating glitter on the ceiling pulled me to a wasteland of serenity. The comfort of hot pink and polka dots. The remnants of her. Who she was.

Spring felt far away, the distance looming up ahead, straying further from my view. I urged for flowers to blossom, fresh daisies, the ones she loved so passionately, like the ones she had tattooed on her foot. I know she’d embrace a field full of color when the warm weather kicked in. She’d hug one and lay down for eternity. A dream-like state of being she’d be content in; surely there’d be no pain and suffering.

I imagined she’d be full of life, her smile reaching her eyes like it used to. She would be overjoyed to see her deceased friends.

Life is strange, I think, as my heart is a heavy weight in my chest, and I am left with unanswered questions. How do I deal with an impending doom? Every time I’m reminded that she’s really disappeared into the atmosphere, burnt to ashes and stored in a pink urn, I feel a thorn pierce me in the side. A sand pit that replaces my stomach. How am I doing? I never have the answer to that. Will I ever? It’s an endless, repeated cycle. I scream and cry into my pillow, pleading for God to end it all. Condolences piled up like the junk mail on the side table. They’re laughing at me, and the hole where my heart should be withers slowly. Hours are long. Days feel like eternities.

I’m left wondering what to do to fill the void.