Grief writes itself on your body. I’m being literal as all get out because I’m not an accidental subtext kind of girl; my dead sister is making me fat. There it is, between my boobs and my pelvis, a sag, a swag of sag. Grief put it there. It lobbed on a year or so ago and I called it my Fat Passenger (Dexter fans would know where that come from). I first noticed it on a bike ride. What the?! Now I notice it walking, in the shower, at work. A couple of Sundays ago a work buddy bumped into my Fat Passenger. Now she knows about it too.
Why am I talking about my stomach?
I have no idea why I would write on the Internet about something I feel so ashamed of that my bedroom is my safest place.
I am obsessing about Libby’s anniversary. I don’t know what to do with myself. Let the black dog take me on a walk into the woods. I’m used to it. I’ve done it before. Let’s push the metaphor out further and say I know the bloody way and I don’t lead any bloody light to guide me.
The black dog loves a Fat Passenger.
Grief is cyclical. Days are good, days are shit, days of joy, days where not one thing happens. The absolute minimum: get kids up, cook, clean, work, put kids to bed. No sentences, that’s for sure. I thought of the best sentence the other night on my way to sleep, I should have written it down. File it lost with all the other best sentences.
I haven’t touched my bike for six weeks, and prior to that it was six weeks. I almost did yesterday. Washed her, dried her, lubed her, stepped back and considered taking a photo, didn’t, wheeled her back into the garage. Maybe tomorrow is the first and last thing out of my mouth lately.
In eleven days in will be June. I hate June. I hate June the tenth. June is the perfect time to become depressed, the first month of winter, white skies, jeans that won’t fit, I can slot in some Seasonal Affective Disorder and take my black dog to town.
That’s right. Don’t ride your bike, interact, take a walk, up your dose. Sit in the dark and wait. Fuck.
Freaking anniversaries. Why the Hell am I so stuck on the day she died, when her being here, her birthday, surely, is the much better day? September the sixteen, so much nicer to say, alliteration, all those S sounds, the day she came into my life. Not that I remember it, I was only one year old. Libby was always nearly head shorter than me. Came up to my chin when we little and stayed that way into adulthood. I could kiss her on the forehead so easily, it was there. Always there, lip height. September the sixteenth. Concentrate. Be thankful.
libby was one in a million, too.