Skeletons

Samantha woke with little to no energy; the funeral had been both physically and emotionally draining. She had finally wiped her tear-stained face around three in the morning and fallen asleep in a fitful dream of misery. Pictures of Grandma happy and at peace mixed with angry, sad faces of family did not bode well for a peaceful night's rest.

"You must have slept like I did." Dee said, as she rounded the corner with a plate of breakfast sandwiches.

"Coffee is on the counter." She mumbled to herself, as she shoved the plate in my face. All emotions of grief reacting at once without acknowledgement.

"Thanks! I said, as I grabbed the breakfast burritos while keeping the rest of the sandwiches from hitting the floor.

Apparently, my mother had been up for a couple of hours, she had the kitchen spotless again and leftovers spread out on the table, labeling each pan and bowl with which family member would get which leftover. Mom was meticulous labeling them by how many family members the pan or a bowl of food would feed.

My aunt had started on the sitting room. Packing up the pictures on the walls. Placing books and movies in the boxes ready for Goodwill. I picked up a movie, most of which were VHS tapes, it was a movie with John Wayne in it, called "The Cowboys, a 1972 American Western. Underneath the western, was a movie with Elvis Presley, called "Blue Hawaii" They were both in the Goodwill box.

Aunt Doris. I said, my mom wanted me to ask if you need help in here.

No. I do not. She said, a little on the abrasive side.

I left the room and allowed my aunt to clean the sitting room on her own without someone watching over her.

Walking into my Grandma's empty room, there is still a chill in the air. I reverently rub my fingers along the silken mattress. I press my cheek to the cool, velvet pillows. I can still smell my grandmothers' perfume, the scent of lilac and rose petals. I glance over at the little half bath and notice all the pill bottles that mom must have missed, sitting on the cabinet and catch a hint of cherry flavored chloroacetic. I used to use that when my throat hurt and sometimes just because it numbed my mouth.

I decide to begin my cleaning spree in the little bathroom. I collect all the medicine, first checking for expiration dates, I flush the expired pills down the drain and the rest I place in a plastic bag. Now that I have started, I find that I am keeping pace with some a rhythm in my head, perhaps a gospel melody long forgotten, or a little kid tune lost in my memories, that grandma used to hum along with while cleaning.

As I reach down under the sink and start pulling out the many rags, my mother comes up behind me. Startled, I jump, striking my middle finger on the inner shelf. Pain shoots through my entire hand but goes away just as fast as it occurred.

Mother! You scared me. Please say something before you walk up on someone unannounced. I said.

Sorry, daughter just wanted to see how you were doing in here. She said, with a smirk.

I'm coming along. I said back. How about you and Doris? I ask.

She seems to be doing ok, almost through with the front part of the sitting room.

My mom replied, you know she gets distracted by the silliest thing.

There seemed to be so much to do and my mother appeared to be handling the little things. She had already made sure the utility companies new; my grandmother was retired so there was no employer to call. My mother had called the life insurance company all before we had even gotten out of bed. She was currently on the phone transferring the title of grandma's house. Her only car, which she hadn't driven in forever, wasn't worth the money to do anything with it except junk it.

I went back to cleaning out the cabinet under the sink. My hand had stopped throbbing, so I reached under the sink and pulled out the plastic tub half full of more pill bottles, half empty Listerine bottle and shampoo bottles. I went through the same routine as before. I emptied the expired pills into the toilet and flushed, as well as the old Listerine and shampoo.

When I finished with the bathroom, I moved over to the dresser. All that really needed to be done over here was all her little Knick knacks put away. I finished with the dresser quick enough and went out to stretch my legs. Coming out of the bedroom and into the light of the living room was a little bit of an adjustment. Seemed like we all needed a break at the same time as my mother and aunt were both out on the front lawn smoking. I joined them.

Getting back to the cleanup of my grandmothers' house took a little longer than I wanted it too. I got myself lost in memories. I never experienced grief this bad before. It all started when I lost my uncle, my world and my hero. Losing grandma just exacerbated my grief. It sneaked up on me quietly and took me under it arms in an instant. Every memory played like a song in my head, repeating itself for what seemed like forever. I was lost mostly because I had lost a big part of me. I couldn't get that part back and I wanted it so bad as my life depended on it, but it was all gone, vanished in thin air. This was going to take longer because whenever I left the room for some fresh air or a break. I always got bombarded with new memories that prolonged the healing process. I picked up where I had left off cleaning. Grandma had managed to keep everything. I dragged the last box from underneath the bed. It was full of papers and envelopes. I sat in the middle of the room for what seemed like forever; the box was bigger than a shoebox and had a latch and keyhole. I wondered as I attempted to pull on the latch if it would just open or I would have to find a key first. I decided I would search for a key as I didn't want to destroy the lock on the beautiful stained, what felt like hand crafted lockbox. I placed it out of sight but somewhere I would remember to get it at the end of the day and went searching through things for a key.

I awaken after a fitful sleep. Perspiration slides down my thin, tan, athletic body. My dirty blond hair soaked in sweat lay stuck to my forehead. Why won't my nightmares fade? As my eyes attempt adjusting to the dark, empty shadows that leave goose bumps on my forearms, I can feel my hands turning cold and clammy. I realize it is the beginning of another panic attack. My heart begins to race.

Turning on the desk lamp next to my bed, I recognize the dark shadows and watch them disappear deeper into the room. I can feel my mouth drying out, and as I try to stand my legs turn to Jell-O.

I run to the bathroom, careful not to fall over the chest in front of the bed. I think of the secrets it holds under its lid. Maybe my nightmares have something to do with what lies in the bottom of the chest. Its' been in my family for generations and my father gave it to me when my mother passed away last year. He said he couldn't bear to look at it. Thinking of my father makes me think of my mother.

Standing in front of the mirror I can see the emotional scars that I carry every day. My fear of abandonment, the way I isolate myself. The physical scars are even worse. My thin, athletic build makes me seem malnourished. My dirty blond hair makes me feel contaminated, my blue-green eyes tell a whole different story. My fingers are raw from all the dead skin I have peeled off them over the years. The scar on my left cheek caused by my mother's long fingernails. I wonder sometimes why my mother had me. She always told me I was worthless. I can hear her voice inside my head. The screeching voice of a crazy woman. "I told you to keep your ugly face out of my eyesight!"

Why did every morning begin with this anxiety-ridden agitation? ROBERT MICHAEL TORRES, YOU GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF THIS INSTANT! I yelled at my reflection in the mirror. You know your mother had issues. She did the best she could with what she had. Glancing at my watch that lay on the bathroom sink, I realized I did not have time for more than a five-minute shower, and just decided to wash the stinky parts that sweat at night. Jumping into the water, I rinsed off, soaped up, and quickly wiped at everything, jumped back out, threw on my work clothes and headed toward the closet for my shoes.

Another bout of panic just about overtook my will to walk. Breathing erratically, I reached for the only thing I could grab, the chest sitting in front of my bed. Landing hard on my right knee I cursed my unstable mind and asked again, why was I like this?

Something caught my attention as I sat there clinging to the side of the chest. I had never really noticed just how pretty the chest might have been brand new. The gold-plated trim shaped like leaves off a tree went all the way around the top of the lid. The chest was made of a very strong wood, but for my memory I could not remember the type. All I knew was the chest had been in my family for at least four generations. As I scrutinized the design, I noticed there was a chip in the gold plating. Knowing how long the chest had been in my family I looked it over, surely there were more chips in the plating. As I got around to the front of the chest, I also noted the latch was loose and that to help keep it closed someone had placed a padlock on it. I wondered where the key had gone.

Damn! I'm late! I thought. As I forgot about the padlock and remembered I had to be to work in under a half an hour. Grabbing at my shoes, I ran out of my bedroom, pulling on one shoe as I ran. I was never any good at balancing on one foot. However, I did manage to make it to my front door before I fell into the wall. Plucking my keys off the wall with one hand and pulling my other shoe on with the other I ran out the door and to my car all the while praying that the traffic wouldn't cause a panic attack. As I pulled out of my driveway, I yelled! ROBERT MICHAEL TORRES GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF!