Continuity

I hear the sound of a brook babbling and I picture us walking along it, holding hands. Everyone is there: Lindsey, Maya, Aunt Nancy, Uncle Mike, all of our grandparents and you. We’re playing in the water, cupping it in our hands and tossing it through the air like we did when we were kids. We’re looking for friendship rocks, scouring the bottom of the creek to find the best rocks that we’ll give to the people we love as tokens of our affection.

Lindsey is there and she’s glowing. She has a big smile on her face and I remember when she sent me a video on her first day as a sous chef.  She was standing in the bathroom, dancing in the mirror; dressed in her perfectly pressed apron, hair piled atop her head. I remember when I promoted her to head baker and how excited she was to come up with her own menu. I remember having margaritas with her, watching her twerk and laughing until I couldn’t breathe. I remember her infectious laugh and her stunning smile. At the age of 22, Lindsey died due to an accidental drug overdose. Not a habitual user, she was having fun with friends and the cocaine was laced with fentanyl. In my mind, Lindsey is at the creek and she isn’t holding onto anger like we are. She’s watching over everyone and waiting for us to arrive when the time is right. 

Maya is there and she’s healthy. She isn’t worried about her body or what it looks like; she isn’t thinking about food or calories. She’s wearing a tank top and shorts and she isn’t cold. Her face is full and her cheeks are rosy. She’s walking without struggle and her eyes are bright and sparkling. She looks happy and peaceful. She’s experiencing her body in a way that she never did on earth. She loves her body and she’s at ease in it. There is no pain in her, she’s present and feels safe. At the age of 32, Maya died due to complications from her eating disorder. She was on hospice and couldn’t leave her bed. She starved to death. In my mind, Maya is at the creek and she isn’t holding onto sadness like we are. She isn’t in pain and the demons in her mind are finally quiet. Her soul no longer fights her brain. She is free. 

You’re there and you’re not sad anymore; you don’t feel insufficient or alone. You’re smiling in that way that I know so well, chuckling at a witty comment you made. I’m laughing because you’re so clever and so damn funny. You aren’t living with a heavy cloak of depression encasing your body. Your softness wraps me up and I feel the warmth of your soul. I remember your voice, your laugh, your love. At the age of 30, Evan died due to complications from depression and alcohol abuse. In my mind, Evan is at the creek and he isn’t holding onto the past like we are. He isn’t lost in his mind, struggling to escape the parts of himself that hurt him. The dark spaces have been filled with light and he is dancing now.

I see all of you and when I miss you, I’ll meet you there.