The Fragility of Magic

I put the coffee mug in front of you. It’s your favorite mug, the one with that stupid over-grown mouse on it. I open the thermos and fill the mug with hot chocolate, leaving enough room for seven mini marshmallows. Seven is a magical number, you used to say. Now you say nothing at all. I know that under the snow are the fragments of the mug I brought you last year. I can see a white spot of pulverized porcelain against the granite. At first, I thought kids might be doing it, breaking the mugs every time, until your mother came.

           She came to my work and threw the mug at me. I could see the mouse rotate as the mug twisted in the air. It smashed against the fax machine, cracking the plastic. I never moved. A piece of porcelain rebounded, cutting my cheek. They called security, but she left before the guard showed up. Maybe the guard thought I deserved it too. Everyone knows our story.

           We were singing in the car. We were driving from my family’s house to yours, stuffed full of ham and hot chocolate. We were laughing, singing dirty versions of the Christmas songs playing on the radio. No, we weren’t driving. Just me. You were in the passenger seat, laughing, singing, smiling. I wasn’t paying attention, not to the road anyway. I kept thinking how lucky I was, the luckiest person in the world to have you as my friend. Had you as a friend.

I’ve come here every Christmas since that night, looking for forgiveness in the granite of your name, the space between your birth and my fault. I look for a sign every time. Anything. A bird, a squirrel, a feather, even a mouse. Anything, any sign that you forgive me, or at least do not hate me.  There is never anything here except those porcelain shards, buried under the snow like seeds of grief. In this stretch of empty field, the one your dad inherited from his father, your family buried you. Isolated. They buried you away from everyone else, to keep you safe. A blank space. A snow-covered canvas, marked with only one grave. Your parents buried you alone, even away from the forest where we played. Your father cut down many of the trees, including the one with our tree fort. I watched as he burned it, our plastic tea set withering away in the heat, the acrid smell making me sweat fear and memories.

           I use what’s left of the trees to sneak onto your parent’s property, though the trees are too far from your stone to provide any protection. She watches for me, your mother. She knows I will come. I don’t look at the house, I never look at the house, but I can feel her watching as I make my way through the snow, exposed. This has become our ritual. Our Christmas tradition. There is nothing here but you, and snow, and ice. Not the ice of that night, black and hidden, though I doubt I would have seen that ice if it had been wrapped in neon lights. I saw the stop sign, too late. I tap the brakes, the car begins to slide, so does the smile on your face. I see your eyes widen, I hit the brakes harder, I’m turning the wheel. The wrong way. I stomp on the brakes, your hair billows out as you whip your head around to look out the window at the headlights coming toward us, toward you, they blind me. Your smile is gone.

           I hear the crunch of snow, fast footfalls. This is the seventh year you have been gone. Like a fool I hoped for something magical. Your mother is running toward us. I stand, take off my scarf, and wrap it around your name. I take my time to smooth the tails of the scarf. I do not turn toward your mother as I straighten. I let her come. She is only a step, maybe two, behind me. I hear the intake of breath, she is going to scream at me, then she stops so suddenly it’s as though she has slammed into an invisible wall. Her breath expels in a great white cloud that swirls around me and dissipates. I am not breathing at all. A cardinal, the first I have ever seen, has landed not on your headstone, but on me. The snow crunches softly as your mother takes a tentative step forward. Her breath in short gasps produces thin white stripes in the air. The bird ruffles its feathers and your mother freezes.

           We are side-by-side, me, and your mother. Transfixed. Your mother reaches out. Her gloveless hand grips my arm. She must be cold. The bird lets out a twittering song, cocks its head and looks at her. I can feel tears freezing on my cheeks. I will stand here until eternity. We have become one. Two petty humans turned into statues, visited by this perfect being of color and song. The bird hops to my shoulder then with a flutter of wings lands on your mother’s hand, which still grasps my arm. She breathes open-mouthed, sucking in stillness. The bird cocks its head back and forth. I am watching from the corner of my eye, not daring to turn my head. The cardinal lets out another whisp of song, then takes flight.

           We stand locked together in pain and joy. It’s only later that your mother notices the white smudge the bird left on her hand. She does not wipe it off. She does not call the police this time. She does not say anything at all. She walks back to the house as the sun is setting, the sound of her sobs muffled by the crunching snow. I stand until the light is gone, until I know that the bird, that you will not come back. As I leave the woods, I hear the cardinal’s song again and know I am forgiven.