Polaroids of You

Why they rushed you to the hospital was anybody's guess. You were dead on arrival, you heard the EMTs say as much as you looked over your body. You were in a car accident, and you hadn't been wearing your seatbelt. Why hadn't you just worn your seatbelt, dammit? Then your body wouldn't have been launched through the windshield at mach speed when you accidentally swerved headfirst into the signpost. Then your parents' car wouldn't be wrecked and you wouldn't be, well, dead.

The EMTs loaded your body into the ambulance, unaware that you were watching them, that you were still here in some form or another. You floated alongside your broken shell all the way to the hospital, mostly still in shock. Why were you still here at all? Why weren't you in some pitch black nothingness, or in some kind of purgatory? Maybe this was purgatory.

You floated along all the way to the ER, where it was confirmed that you were dead. You had been since the accident. At least you didn't remember how it felt. Did you feel anything at all, anyway, or was it instant? You see your family enter and gather around the hospital bed, tears already welling in their eyes. I'm sorry, you say, but to no avail. They can't see you, they can't hear you. No one can.

Your mom has completely broken down, sobbing as her knees buckle and your dad moves to catch her before she falls. You were so young. There had never been any sort of talk about what you wanted once you were gone, no talk of cremation or burial, no talk of pulling the plug-but that information wouldn't be of any use now anyway.

So you watch them. You watch as your mother bawls into her hands, held up by your father whose eyes are dewy as he tries to be strong. You watch as your older sister wipes at her wet eyes with the back of her hand, guilt pitting in her stomach because the last thing she said to you was "God, I really hate you sometimes." You watch as your younger brother looks up at your parents in fear, too young to really understand what's going on.

After a long time, you're not sure just how long it was, your family is leaving. Your body will be moved to a funeral home within a matter of days. You decide to leave with your family, instead of watching your old body sit in the hospital morgue. The car ride home is dreadfully silent, apart from the occasional wet sniffles. Your father will be getting the wrecked car towed, but he can't bear to deal with it right now. He didn't have to say the last part, but you knew. Everyone did. Nobody blames him.

You spend another long time silently and invisibly following your family around your old home as they grieve, and then as they try to get past this. Eventually, the leaves on the trees outside your house turn colors and fall to the ground. Your mother is too wrought with grief to rake them, so they pile up in the yard. Pumpkins and jack-o-lanterns begin popping up on the front porches of houses on the street, and that's when you realize that Halloween is coming up. If not for the pumpkins, you're not sure if you would've remembered. Your mom, who usually decorates every square inch of the house for every holiday, has barely left her bed. The house is just as plain and undecorated as it was the day you died.

Nobody blames her, of course. You were so suddenly and violently ripped from their lives, and Halloween had been your favorite holiday. It was too painful for them, to be reminded of their loss with every decoration they hung. They didn't even bother buying pumpkins, or candy for trick-or-treaters this year. You didn't know yet, but your house would be pitch black this year, as if no one was home. Because, really, it didn't feel like anyone was home anymore. Your house hadn't felt like a home for anyone since you died.

You desperately miss the smell of the pumpkins you carved every year with your siblings. You were so young. A bit too old to be carving pumpkins, some may say, but you disagreed. It was tradition, after all. Your mom would bake pre-made sugar cookies, the ones with the pumpkins on them, while you sawed away. You miss the smell of the cookies, too. Your dad would read the paper at the island, just content being in everyone's presence. You miss the musty smell of the halloween decorations when your mom would bring them upstairs, having been stored in the basement for the past eleven months. You wished they would decorate, wished they would engage in the holiday traditions, for you. But you understood. It was just too painful.

Your sister had come up with a wonderful idea for costumes this year, albeit a bit late. Halloween was tomorrow, after all. Your parents weren't very interested at first, not wanting another chance to be reminded of losing you. But as she told them, their eyes lit up with excitement, and even the corners of your lips were beginning to turn up as you floated behind your sister. Your parents agreed to her plan and immediately set off to begin gathering everything they needed for their costumes, and you followed along behind them, silent as usual.

It was finally here; Halloween. Your family spent most of the day making their final touches to their costumes, and then finally, they were set. You watched with a grin as they showed off their costumes to one another. They had all dressed up as you, or more specifically, their favorite memories of you. There was a stack of polaroids on the island in the kitchen, all of you. Your brother, who wasn't old enough to remember when you were young, had been dressed as you at age four, in a pink, orange and purple striped sweater, when you had been sitting inside the fridge eating left over chicken nuggets. Your sister was you at age ten, only four years younger than her, getting stuck in a Fisher-Price red and yellow Cozy Coupe. How you had managed to get stuck, you're not entirely sure, but she looked far more trapped at her age than you had been at age ten. Your father was you at age fifteen, in a blonde wig with poorly made pig-tails and a tube skirt, his hands on his hips as he obnoxiously blew a bubble with his chewing gum. You were a bit of a brat at age fifteen, admittedly. Finally, your mom was you at eighteen, newly off to college, mascara streaks down her cheeks and Roscoe, your favorite stuffed elephant in her arms. You had never been away from home for such a long time before.

Upon seeing the pictures the others had recreated, your family burst into laughter, then tears, but their smiles never faded. Your sister had run off at some point during the day to get candy for trick-or-treaters; it was decided that the house needed to be lit up, no matter what. No, nobody had put the spider webbing up outside, nobody had put any of the decorations up inside. Nobody had carved pumpkins, and your mother hadn't made cookies, but this was a good start. This was the first step to healing, and you would be there for all of them every step of the way, even if they didn't know it. Happy Halloween.