text: I hate the way my brain works. It’s a crisp October morning, bright but frigid enough to remind you that winter is just around the corner. Iridescent leaves of brilliant reds and oranges (like fire, she used to say) are dancing around my feet along with the eastern breeze that carries them. Off in the distance, clouds swirl with the promise of coming rain and if you close your eyes long enough and just wait, you can smell it. The lightning in the air, the change of the bright sunshine to something wet, something chilling, something utterly fall like. Try as I might, it’s a feeling I can’t quite put into words. That’s what she was always for - that’s what she was good at. I am standing on the edge of a freshly dug grave, my mind everywhere else except the service currently underway. It’s why I hate my brain. It loves to taunt me, to reach into its innermost parts and pull out half-formed thoughts that have no bearing on what is happening now. On this day a year ago, she was alive, its saying now. Why am I thinking like that? Moreover, why can I remember so clearly exactly where I was and what I was doing on this exact date one year previous? Baking cookies, my mind supplies. In preparation for your friend’s impending visit. A mundane task, I think to myself as the minister begins to say a prayer. For heaven’s sake, it didn’t even have anything to do with her. But that’s the way my brain works: God forbid I recall how to create a spreadsheet at my new job or the varied names of my coworkers, no - I can just remember that on October 10 th of last year, I was baking cookies. Because Annalise was coming on the 11 th and staying for a full two nights and I wanted to have something tasty to greet her with. A week ago you had no idea this is where you’d be standing today. Obviously, yes. One of death’s primary attributes is that it sneaks in, catches you unaware in order to more hideously deliver the damaging blow. A week ago I had no idea I would be envying those who were granted that extra time to mourn; the ones who receive the cancer diagnosis, or the organ failure, or any of the other verdicts that are impossible to conquer but still they have time to say goodbye, make peace. I wasn’t afforded that opportunity, and neither was she and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. You don’t like it because you don’t like being reminded you’re not really in control. I inhale sharply through my nose and close my eyes, trying and failing to stop the well of tears that are threatening to fall. She loved this season. It was always her favorite - the colors, Jules. The inherent paradox of the end of life being so beautiful. It figures she would die just after fall started. I’ve attempted to make sense of why that was, how in the hell the end of her life could ever be considered something beautiful. But that’s not how life (or death) works. We don’t get the dénouement at the end of the story or the meaningful connection found after the fact. It just...stops. The people around me are shuffling now, dabbing moist cheeks with embroidered handkerchiefs, and a select few are already making their way across the muddied graveyard. I wonder if their thoughts are mirroring my own. I wonder how much they care about the woman whose just been laid to rest, how much this simple service is going to impact the rest of their day and week and year. Its astounding to me that my entire world could be crumbling at my feet, my lungs gasping for air as I drown in the depths of my sorrow, only to be patted on the shoulder and told, “Sorry about your mom.” Me too. Me too. There’s a man doing that now, gripping my shoulder and looking at me with watery eyes. I can’t remember who he is - someone she worked with, maybe. I nod at him, my mouth forming practiced words that will suffice to answer their condolences while also letting them know I’m not up for conversation. He smiles at me and walks away, leaving me alone with my thoughts and this brain, this horrible, nasty brain. Standing on the edge of the grave, I try and fail to focus on the way she looked across the breakfast table, or how she would snort a little bit as she laughed whenever she was telling a dumb joke. But all that comes to mind is the imagery of her now-rotting corpse, hidden away beneath my feet. *** There’s a lump of rolled ham lodged in the back of my throat that doesn’t seem to want to go down. My aunt is talking to me in conspiratorial tones beneath the window my mom had painted autumn leaves all over ten years ago. She didn’t have the auburn paint like she thought she did, so she had used red and I had told her it looked like blood drops all over the windowpanes. She had laughed and said that must mean she wasn’t a very good artist. I had agreed, arrogant ten-year-old that I was. Its stupid but now I wish I hadn’t said that. “Anything you need, anything at all,” Aunt Marcy is saying and I still can’t seem to swallow this piece of ham. “We’re here for you, honey. Please know that.” I set my plate of food down because the sight of it is making me feel like I’m going to vomit. “Thank you,” I choke out, finally grabbing a napkin and spitting out the bite of food I had taken out of nervous habit instead of actual desire. I don’t know what to do with my hands. I don’t know what to say to any of these people who feel the need to approach me when all I really want is to be left alone to think for a minute about what I’m going to do now. I don’t know why its considered traditional to have a little party after a funeral anyway. None of this makes sense. The world doesn’t make sense without her in it. “Julia.” A gentle touch on my elbow and my heart swells with conflicting emotion as I turn to find Eric standing there. “Hey.” “Hey,” I reply to my childhood best friend. I’ve been in love with him since second grade and somehow even that feels stupid now. I shouldn’t be allowed to continue loving when the woman who gave me life is buried six feet under. Eric looks at me for a second, then subtly nods his head towards the door. I nod, understanding his request, and I manage a hasty “excuse me” to my Aunt before following him outside to my backyard. The swingset we had played on as kids is still standing, tucked in amongst the maple trees. We both wordlessly take a seat and he offers me a cigarette. I take it without thinking, and my brain cheerfully reminds me as he lights it that I’d promised her I would quit. That was over a year ago, I think. When I made that promise she was still alive. We sit in comfortable silence for a while, the only sound the altering drags we take on our cigarettes. Its weird to be sitting here with him, facing my old home. I can’t remember the last time we sat here like this on the swings, living our lives that were yet untouched by the unknown. We must have been kids, and I find it funny I can’t withdraw a specific memory to immediate recollection. Instead all that circles through is, the last time you sat here, she was alive - “Your mom would have hated this.” The rusted chain links squeak as I turn to look at him, my legs folded awkwardly beneath me. He exhales the smoke from his lungs and shakes his head, gazing at the house as if he too is looking back in time. “All these people here. She didn’t have most of them over by choice and now they’re getting a glimpse into her private life. She wouldn’t have wanted that.” I snort, flicking the ash off the tip of my cig. “You’re right, of course. And she would have told you that.” He eyes me sideways. “You were always right in her eyes.” “Not that time she caught us painting your room black.” A series of images flash through my mind: a roll brush stained with paint, old newspaper crunching beneath my feet, the tone of her voice when she saw I’d ruined my new pair of overalls. “I couldn’t look her in the eyes for weeks.” “She secretly thought it was cool though.” The breeze rustles the loose strands of hair around my face and I swallow down the rising lump in my throat. “That’s why she let me keep it that way.” Silence falls between us because he knows I’ll cry if we keep talking about it. He’s a dear and he would let me, of course, but he’s well aware of how much I hate to cry. It’s a little mercy I find myself ridiculously grateful for. “Its such a beautiful day.” “It really is.” My gaze is fixed on the house again but I can tell he’s looking at me. Oh boy. Here it comes. “You okay, Jules?” It’s a stupid question and its one we both know the answer to. But all that’s on my mind is the clatter of the pots as she made dinner, the breathy sound of her voice as she sang Make You Feel My Love. “I don’t understand why,” I say. I finally muster the courage to look at him and those familiar brown eyes are brimming with an emotion I can’t quite place. “Why it had to be her?” he asks quietly and I shake my head. “No....no.” The thoughts slowly crystalizing into words feel stupid somehow and I hesitate, wondering if I should just fill in the gap between us with one of my practiced clichés. The leaves are swirling once more against the toes of my boots and they remind me of blood drops, rainy days, and all the things I never got the chance to say to her. “I don’t understand why I can’t feel her anymore.” Eric nods, his brows dipping in contemplation. “She was light and she was my...my muse. I could be walking through a dark parking lot after work and still take a moment to look at the stars and think, huh. I should call mom. Or I’d be on a coffee date with a friend, watching the cherry blossoms drifting off to nowhere and I’d suddenly remember what a kick ass cherry pie she made.” I shrug, swallowing down yet another sob threatening to climb up my throat. “It’s like the day she died the light went out. And I can’t get it back.” “Maybe you won’t,” he says without hesitation. “And that’s okay, Jules. Its okay to carry that with you, cherish it. The memories that you have and the impact your mom had - those are yours. Uniquely, and privately, yours.” The swings creak again as he reaches over to wrap an arm around my shoulder. “And that’s something no one can ever take away from you.” You’ll never hear the actual sound of her voice again. Its something you took for granted and now its lost forever. “You’re right,” is all I say, trying to hide the brittle shatter of my traitorous thoughts. “Thank you.” And he is right, in a way. Maybe not in the way I need, but he is. “Come on,” he says, suddenly standing. He reaches out a hand towards me and I take it, rising with him as we each take one last puff. “We’ll get back and engage in the pleasantries and then we’ll get that old scrapbook off the shelf - see if we can find your muse again.” I smile at him and crush my cigarette into the wet earth. “Okay. Deal.” We move back towards the house, and I marvel at the warm glow that appears in my chest when he slips his fingers between mine. Thank God for him , I think as we walk back inside. I should make him a cherry pie.