I am working in your place today. It feels uncomfortable. You should be here. This empty void can only be you. Your apron still hangs on the wall, your name on the hook. I get close to it and sniff. Maybe your scent lingers on it. I look around, wondering if anyone saw me creepily inhaling a coffee stained apron. But no, I wouldn't have recognized it anyway. We weren't like that- I'm a married woman! But even so, it's a part of you that I hope still clings to the green fabric. Someday your name will be replaced on the wall, and the apron will be washed and lost in a sea of identical ones. But for now, I hope it still hangs there for awhile- a visual reminder of your memory each time I pass it. There is your mailbox with your name on it. I peek inside, a tinge of guilt, as if I am invading your privacy. It's as if I need proof that you existed, something to hold on to. A dark thought clouds my mind, that with each passing moment and hour, you will drift further and further away. In time, other coworkers will come and go, until only a few who knew you will be left. As the workday progresses, new faces arrive. The cycle then starts all other again: break the news, more tears, pull yourself together, go to work. I'm hoping to fill every second with busyness, because I am afraid that if I have an idle moment, I will burst again into tears as thoughts of you creep back into my head. Finally, as the evening is coming to a close and the last customers are trickling out, I clean the tile floor. I suddenly remember this is the last memory I have of you- a few evenings ago, mopping the floor in companionable silence. Who knew that would be the last time I would ever see you. As I count the money in the drawer, I gaze at the counter around me, longing for a scrap of receipt paper with one of your doodles of a customer on it, but there is nothing. How many times have I tossed those scraps in the trash in the name of tidiness? I long to take it all back.
I had always seen a reflection of myself in you- depressed, anxious, hopeless, struggling, angry, sad. It was a world we both knew, but I never knew how to bridge that gap, to start the conversation that we both knew the struggle of mental illness. That maybe we could both feel a little less alone and hopeful knowing that we had each other. Although I know that your departure from this Earth is not my fault, I still wonder if one grain of sand could have tipped the scale. One kind word. And what if that one kind word was supposed to be from me and I failed? There is another part of me that envies you, now basking in a place where the suffering and pain no longer exists. Why not me? Did you have an unlucky roll of the dice which gave you a Y chromosome and therefore statistically more likely to be "successful" at taking your life? Is my survival also a roll of the dice? Am I lucky to be female? What did I do to deserve the support of family and friends? Access to good healthcare without bankrupting me? What do I have to offer by still being here? Not enough that I wouldn't trade my life for the chance at you having another one.
I find myself constantly fingering the semi-colon necklace a friend gave me as a gift. I am a survivor, and my life goes on. In this shadow of grief, I feel the need for that frequent reminder around my neck. I am a survivor, I am still here, and I need to keep going. Life keeps going. My story is not over.
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