Life after death

My mother cried into her cupped hands words she hoped were comforting.

“You’re too young to be a widow!” she sobbed.

The frustration on top of the grief nearly tore me at the seams but neither her nor my father seemed to notice. My father 's poor hand was being crushed in a grip he likely hadn’t received in my 26 years of life. I suppose there’s a silver lining here that my parents' relationship may be reborn in the ashes of mine. Nothing reminds you of what you have more than the death of a loved one. I spent almost the entire wake standing by him, gazing at his peaceful face and wondering what he would say to me if he had a chance to say goodbye. I imagined the power of the car crash had jump started an astral projection of him into our bedroom, where I waited cluelessly watching a movie. Instead of happily munching on popcorn and hugging a pillow that reserved his spot between my arms, I would receive a vision of him and we would say goodbye. I would be shocked at first, jumping violently and spilling popcorn all over the bed. He would put his hands on my shoulders when I tried to run away and I’d calm down instantly. He’d tell me that he loves me, and he would tell me he’s sorry for not leaving work five minutes sooner or five minutes later than he had. Tears streaming down my face I would tell him I love him too, I would tell him that he had become a part of me and I would never be whole again. It helped to escape to a fantasy world where he still existed but it could never last. That night I hadn't cried, there was no popcorn mess on the bed and I stayed cozy underneath the sheets until morning.

My ex-boyfriend, who I had not invited, was sure to remind me that I was free now before my husband's body was in the ground. Once the casket was covered in dirt I realized I had nothing I wanted to stay for. Nothing to go home to either. I drove around the city feeling lost, unsure of what to do or where to go. Every time I passed a location I had once visited with Jonathan I was hit with the sharp sting of loneliness, but continued to drive. Soon I was overwhelmed by images of us singing different songs, drinking on bridges at 2 in the morning and howling to the night sky to let the world know we had found our perfect pack.

The howls of mindless joy that once electrified the air were gone. The cold draft on my skin felt stale, my chest was hollow, the lights and colors had gone with the sun. I was left in the dark with stone walls and steel bars, like a prison cell but no warden, no other prisoners either. There seemed to be no one in this hell hole but me and my memories, and one lonely barn owl flying overhead.

I came out of a trance outside my apartment, not really sure how I got home in one piece. My hand felt wrong against the doorknob of my apartment, like I was an intruder to the happy couple who lived here. I lied on the couch in my black mourning dress and stared at the ceiling. I waited for someone to come kick me out but of course no one did. Johnathan was gone forever and took any part of me that was alive with him.

Too young to be a widow she said, I felt like I was a hundred years old. I wondered how long it would take my body to stop defying reality by continuing to pump blood through my veins, if I just stayed here and thought of Jonathan.

My phone began buzzing in my purse beside the couch slowly pulling me out of my haze. It took all my strength to push myself up and reach over to grab it.

“Hello,” I answered quietly.

“Fawn, you’re mother and I are worried about you, did you want to stay with us tonight?” My father suggested with his perpetual sternness.

“No, thank you. I’m fine.” I insisted.

I thought back to how I hovered over his body for hours and realized I must have looked like I was going crazy.

“It’s okay if you are not fine, hun, we are here for you.” He said sincerely.

“I’m tired, I think I’ll just go to bed here.” I mumbled.

“Okay, call us if you need anything. We love you.” His voice was broken into static through the lifeless collection of metals in my hand.

“I love you, Fawn!” My mother called, adding another voice to the sounds the little, black robot was making.

“I love you to.” I tried to make my voice sound at least a little stable but knew that I had failed.

I hung up and put the phone back in my purse. I realized pretty quickly that I wasn't going to be able to fall asleep. Slowly I sat up and allowed the faintness and blackened vision to pass before I stood up. I had eaten at the wake to suffice my mothers worries, despite everything having the taste and consistency of wet chalk, so I figured I didn’t need to eat dinner. I trudged towards the shower, pushing aside the little, blue owl decaled curtain and stepping in. John had liked the water at a temperature that would burn my skin. I’d wash my shoulder to test it and wince back from the pain immediately. Today I turned it to the temperature John liked it, I wanted to test something. The water heated and just as they always did my nerves sent frantic signals of pain to my brain, only this time my brain didn’t respond. Soon enough my nerves grew bored of being ignored and quieted down enough for me to enjoy the searing jets.

A few minutes later my hair was dripping water onto the carpet in my bedroom. One of John's shirts was pressed against my face and I inhaled like a coke addict on the third week of a bender. As long as I didn’t exhale I could stay in this ecstasy forever. I held it back from my face for a moment to appreciate the abstract image of an owl on it. Carefully I folded it and put it back in his drawer with shaking hands. Around the room my eyes picked out all of his things. The bedspread with an image on a barn owl, a motivational poster of an owl, an owl shaped piggy bank. In the kitchen there were owl spoons and plates. I had loved his enthusiasm about the majestic avian, never knowing that one day it’s image would be an overwhelming reminder of what I lost. Frantically I began shoving everything with an owl on it into a garbage bag. I would throw it over the balcony and never have to see any of it again. Someone else could take it home and have a load of lovely new furnishing. Or maybe a homeless man would find it and sell it. The faster I ran around the tiny apartment the more urgent my need to rid myself of these owls became. With each item came a memory, memories of his smiling face as we walked together through malls, his excitement when he found the perfect item to fill our owl themed home.

“How about this one, my little owl?” He would ask me, and I would always say I loved it.

Exhausted and still shaking, and having purged every last remnant of a life I would never have again I dragged the overflowing garbage bag to my balcony. Almost hysterically I threw the sliding door open only to freeze in my tracks as I realized I was being watched. The eyes of a young fledgling stared back at me from the darkness. Somehow the sight of its innocent young form was my tipping point. A low moan escaped my lips before my knees crashed against the carpet. The tears I’d been harboring began to flow freely down my face. Of course my crying scared the poor little barn owl away, through my tears I watched it sore out of sight. I wanted to feel free. I wanted to fly. I climbed up from my crouched position to peek over my railing at the ground below. The wind burned the tear streaks on my face but I craved more. My hands gripped the railing tightly and for a moment I truly believed that I could fly.