Masked

Memories are a funny thing. We forget the things we want to remember and remember the things we wish we could forget. I told myself I would never let her go, that I refused to conform to this so-called process of mourning. Yet every day that passes, a little piece of her goes away with it. First I couldn’t remember her laugh, then her touch, and then her voice. I tried you know, to think about the way she was, and all I managed to recall was the day she no longer existed. It was and always had been a consistent memory that evoked itself like a shadow looming over any ray of light.

The day was dramatically clear in my mind. Clearer than I ever would want it to be. Standing there at the door, a bouquet of flowers in an assortment of colors, a pointless get well soon card sticking out from the top. I can admit it now, the balloons, the flowers, the cards, they were all meaningless, a sad attempt to remedy a situation that had no solution. What she had was terminal and would eventually lead to her death, why couldn’t I just accept it?

I was silent, not a single piece of emotion little lone a single word managed to escape me. I stood there as if I were nonexistent, as if the scene I was witnessing wasn’t even real.
My little sister, Gracie, tried to jump at the foot of her bed; a desperate attempt to see what my dad was crying about, to see if what she didn’t fully understand had actually happened. I continued to watch not knowing how to feel, what to say, how to react. I was scared, terrified about what was to come.

My hands began to shake nervously as the bouquet fell from my grasp, sending the card sliding to a stop at my dad’s feet. Both dad and Gracie turned to finally acknowledge my presence. I had given myself away.

The body bag was green and had “Palms Mortuary” printed in gold alongside the zipper. Can you believe it? Green. My favorite color. I guess life had a funny way of showing its sense of humor.