The Package

Numb. I've been numb for weeks now, merely going through the motions of living. The pain cuts too profoundly to do much else, my brain shielding itself against the devastation of that day. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, the flash of red streaking across my memory like a comet. I fear closing my eyes now, and I squeeze them together tightly, wanting to shut out the images I can't help but see. They are seared in my brain. When I open my eyes again, I only see the emptiness where life once was so prominent.

I hadn't planned to fall in love with Thomas. The timing had never seemed suitable for us; life always had a way of keeping us apart. He devoted his life to his work; I settled for another man. Neither situation was sustainable, and neither of us was happy, making it the perfect opportunity for cupid to strike. If it hadn't been for me… but no, I shut that thought down before I can finish it. I know the blame won't help. It won't bring him back.

The vibration of my phone against my wooden nightstand startles me, pulls me from the dark thoughts and memories that won't leave me alone. Clumsily I reach for it, not bothering to check the caller, barely able to answer before the call is missed. A familiar perky voice is on the other end, and I am forced to stifle a groan. "Hi, Mom." My words are dull, blunted by the emotions I've suppressed.

"Please don't tell me you are still in bed." There is chastisement in her voice, and the guilt washes over me. This is the only day I get off in a week, my day to reset and prepare myself to face the world. I've gotten to know every inch of my bed over the past few months. I long for the comfort it brings after a long week of pretending. Anymore all I do is act I'm okay.

"I won't tell you then."

The sigh resounds in my head, and I flinch involuntarily. I'm tired of the judgment of others for how I've responded to the event, but I can't help it. It changed everything, and the grief is still too much to name. "Honey, I'm worried. Have you talked to anyone?" I can hear the unspoken words, the judgment, and the pity they contain. 'Have you talked to a therapist?' It's the question she wants to ask but won't. I think it is partially because she knows my answer.

I take a deep breath in, counting the inhale as if that is the only thing holding the world together. I do the same on the exhale, though it doesn't bring the same calm as usual. It's a calm I haven't felt in months, and I would give anything to feel that way just once more. "No." I breathe out, the word sounding defeated on its own. "I'm not sure what to say." I'm shocked by how feeble my voice house, the tears threatening to spill over. The phone is shaking in my hand. The dam blocking my emotions, held tightly in place over the past few months, is beginning to crack. I know if I let it, I won't be able to function again. There's too much damage there.

"Oh, honey." My mother's words are little more than a breath of air, and my heart breaks at that moment. I'm tired of the pity, of the sideways glances that seem to follow me wherever I go. I want this pain to fade, but I'm not sure it ever will. I'm not sure it ever can. I close my eyes to try and fight the guilt and shame, but I only see the brown paper package left unattended. "You can't carry this alone. What happened was a tragedy, but you have to learn to move on."

I feel myself nod, recognize the warmth on my cheeks. I'm crying. I haven't done that yet, and it catches me off guard. I wasn't sure I was still able to cry. "Mom, I see the explosion. Every time I close my eyes, it's there. I see the package, feel the worry build in me, and then I see him lying on the ground. I smell the copper and see the blood pouring from him. How am I supposed to go on? I loved him, and I never told him. How do I continue to live?"

Her breath hitches, and I know she's crying. I know how worried she was as the cell towers were overloaded, and she couldn't get ahold of me. I know the pain that day caused her, but it has hurt me so much worse. The life I was building, the happiness I felt, was taken during that terrorist attack. While I haven't wanted to burden anyone with my pain, I can't avoid it any longer. My mother has broken me down with a few questions. "I'm coming." I'm shocked by her words, but they are welcome. I've needed her, but I've avoided admitting such things. Right now, I need anyone who can help pull me back to myself.

"Thank you." Through my brokenness, it's the only thing I can think to say. For the first time in months, I feel myself have hope, and I welcome it.