Someone You Know is Dying

 Someone You Know is Dying

 

You haven’t been in touch for years, a connection grown thinner and thinner—yet she once knitted a hat and, because it was too small for her head, gave it to you. You got a blanket after the divorce, hers not yours, that was still to come. She was a fiddle player. Now, when you hear a jig or lively dance tune, you pause, remembering. The band stopped touring a few years back. On one hand you feel angry, then sad, then thoughtful. Nothing feels right. She spins, her spinning wheel sits silent, the remains of the last dyed yarns died. You ask friends: Why didn’t she fight? She wasn’t that old. It wasn’t cancer or some incurable disease. It was your ex-husband who said it best—She was too logical. Meaning—only an insane person contests death.

Still, you’re pissed. There’s a picture of her you discovered on your hard drive when changing over to a new computer (another form of death, another story of grieving). Memorial Day 2005 by the lake. Exactly 20 years ago to the day she went to the hospital emergency room complaining of stomach pains, and never came out. You stare hard at the screen, her hair is red and you, training for a marathon, are in the best shape ever. On a blanket in the park she plays Uno with her daughter, you, and another friend.

Dammit, you want to shout. Instead, you whisper. You’re still in pajamas despite it being mid-afternoon. You haven’t played Uno in decades.

Damn it.

You make buttered toast, while the room darkens in the corners.

She could be stubborn, aggravating, and selfish—you only know this because you were the same. You both arrived in Chicago from Ohio about a year apart, you from Centerville and she from Oakwood. Your high school played hers in football. Both of you hailed from dysfunctional families. You had that in common. You were in your early 20s, together.

That’s what you miss. All that stupid time, like a tolling bell, an endless novel, running out of words, that finally ends. And this thing that was and the people turn into memories.

The sun slowly fades, the room slips into darkness. You light a candle, you rage: Why did you leave me?

Memorial Day Picnic 2005