F.B.J.

Sitting on the beach is supposed to be calming, but the sand is poking in between all of my toes and making them squirm. I can feel sand has gotten to other places too, but I guess I’ll deal with that in the shower. But those little, yellow grains are making my whole body fizz. I don’t move though. I sit on the sand, salt tantalizing my nose, and the breeze pulling at my hair, tickling my neck. The sunrise is gorgeous, but today it just looks like colors. It doesn’t strike me with awe like it used to. It’s just there and that annoys me most of all. 

I hold in my hands a little brown jar. It’s one of those jars you put fresh jam in. You painted it brown for who knows what reason. Maybe you knew I’d be holding it in a shitty situation. Maybe brown was the only color of paint we had in the closet. You told me to hold onto this jar and only open it when I needed to. But how do I know I need it if I don’t know what’s inside? When I asked, you only said, “You’ll know”. 

I know nothing. Well, I know some things. I know the ocean in front of me has a deepest point of 25 Empire State Buildings. I only know that because Rick said it in a presentation in environmental science. God, Rick is annoying. We were told to do a ten-minute presentation and that nimrod blathered on for twenty straight minutes. I felt like I would never be released from that monotone and painstaking sentence. But, I know nothing. I don’t know what to do! I don’t know what to feel or say or eat or how to move anymore! I don’t know how to live in this new world! And I can’t even ask God for help because he’s dead. 

Dead. It’s weird to think about. No consciousness. No breathing. No sunrises. No cherry-vanilla coke. No fucking ball jars staring up at me telling me to open it if I need it! I don’t need it. I don’t need it! I DON’T-

I open it. I close my eyes and throw my head back. I can’t look. I can’t look. I won’t look. I won’t-

I look. Tiny folded papers crowd each other. I flipped out over stupid pieces of paper? I can’t breathe because of chopped-up paper? I pull one out just to see if these tiny pieces of paper were worth it. And I see it.

“You are so tiny. I know babies are small, but you are so tiny! I’m afraid I’ll hurt you just by touching you. Your mom laughs when I tell her. She says you can take it.”

Your messy scrawl bleeds into the paper. Your words scribbled in orange ink from that pen you always carried, frozen in time. I pull out another paper, starving for more.

“You are currently face-down on the carpet screaming and I’m trying so hard not to laugh. I’m sorry the sky isn’t green, baby girl.”

“You are sniffling in my arms with two bandaid-clad knees. Your helmet and bike lie forgotten next to us. But you’ll pick it up again. You can take it.”

“You are smiling under your helmet with a bat in your hands. You don’t care that you ran the wrong way all the way around the bases. You just smile from your ‘homerun’ as you called it.”

“You slammed doors and screamed your lungs dry a few days ago, but since then I haven’t heard your voice. You sound so much like she does- did. And right now I don’t know if I need to hear that voice or if it would just blow me off of my feet. How can I help you through the hardest pain in your life when it’s also the hardest in mine? She’s gone and she’s the only one who’d know what to do.”

“You scowl at the mirror, trying to hide your new red dots. I wish I could help you, but I don’t know what to do. Maybe I’ll ask Dana’s sister.”

“You roll your eyes at all of my jokes. I know they’re bad, but they’re called Dad jokes for a reason.”

“You smile as I take a 32nd picture. I can’t help it. You’re just so beautiful. I hope he treats you right and you have fun.”

“You smile as you shake his hand. You avoid tripping over your long robe and I ignore the stinging in my eyes.”

“You slam the trunk down, you throw your hands around my neck, and you kiss my cheek. I slide a 50 in your purse and say, ‘Goodbye’. You drive off and this time the stinging turns wet.”

“You come home smiling one Christmas and I ask what has you so happy. You hold out a hand. Your left hand.”

“You were sitting at the table. But you just got up and went to the bathroom. You don’t think I can, but I hear your heart-dropping tears.”

“You sit next to me through it all. The pain, the tears, and now when they say there’s nothing left. You hold my hand, but I draw you nearer.”

“You are sleeping in the chair. I know your neck must be hurting from the way it’s hanging. I selfishly want to wake you up for this, but I let you sleep. Your mom was right, you can take it.”

And then I woke up, but you didn’t. You left. I feel the sand shift beneath me. Tom’s hand sits on my knee. My breathing hitches. He says nothing. I say nothing. The silence is deafening.

“Did you know?” I swallow, “Did you know the deepest point of the Ocean is 25 Empire State Buildings deep?”

“Huh. I didn’t know that.” He then asks, “Are you ready?”

I look back at the sunrise, the sun is almost completely here. That ball of yellow surrounded by pink sky with twinges of orange. I can feel the orange settling around my arms, hugging me. I nod, “I can take it.”