Finding Contentment

I am fifteen the day she dies. I press my hands to the wound in her stomach, trying in vain to staunch the steady stream of crimson. The thick, metallic scent hangs in the air, staining every breath with the taste of blood. She lifts a trembling hand and places it ever-so-gently on my cheek. "Lyra," is all she says, her voice pinched tight with pain, but the look in her eyes tells me what she won't say: she isn't going to survive this.

A sob forces it's way out of my throat, my vision blurring over with tears, and press my hands even harder into her stomach. "You can't die here," I choke, "you're supposed to become a doctor, remember?"

The smile that creases her face is a sad one. "I don't think I'm going to get to live that dream."

She lifts her hand from my cheek and uses it to push my hands away from her wound. I take a breath, ready to protest, to insist that there has to be something I can do, but the anguished expression on her face kills the words in my throat.

Finally, finally, I let resignation seep in. My best friend is going to die, and I am powerless to stop it. I pull her into my arms, tucking her close to my chest and rocking gently back and forth. "I love you," is all I can manage to say around the lump in my throat.

"I love you too," she murmurs, and with one final, rattling breath, Dahlia Rivers is no more.

Hands and shirt soaked in her blood, her body still cradled against my chest, I stand on shaking legs and begin the journey home.

The day of her funeral is a beautiful one. A small. irrational part of me burns with hate at the cloudless blue sky, at the sunlight filtering through the canopy of leaves above our heads, at the gentle breeze that stirs those leaves--how dare anything be beautiful when she isn't around to see it?

The rest of me is heavy with grief. There is only six of us here--her closest friends and the only people in the world who had loved her enough to be devastated that she was gone. Had I been in a clearer state of mind, I'm sure I would have been angry at this, too--someone like Dahlia deserved to be loved by every person who had ever met her.

I am the first to speak, making my way up front as my heart beats painfully in my chest.

I pull out a piece of paper from the pocket of my sweater, my hands shaking so badly I nearly drop it.

"Everything is changing, and, now that you're gone, I'm terrified of where things might end up."

These were the first words of the eulogy I had hastily written out the night before, rendered barely legible by the smeared ink and crumpled edges. My voice catches in my throat, my eyes burning with yet unshed tears. My chest feels like it's collapsing in on itself--a star on the verge of supernova--and the breath is wrenched from my lungs. 

I glance out at the tiny group who has gathered together for this, and I hastily shove the paper back into my pocket. No use trying to look put together in front of the only other people in the world who had loved her as much as I had, after all. I take a single shaky breath, and begin again.

"Dahlia Rivers was one of the strangest people I have ever known. She would mix sour croute and mustard into her scrambled eggs and insist that it was the only correct way to eat them. She had a seemingly endless supply of awful dad jokes--none of them were ever funny, but she was always so excited to tell them that you'd end up smiling anyway. She loved horror movies, but, anything over PG-13, and she'd invite someone to watch with her so she'd have a convenient shoulder to hide her face in when things got a little too scary. She was bright, she was kind, and she deserved so much better than she got. She was weird, and she was wonderful, and she was ours. And I hope she knew just how much she was loved."

At this point, I am crying so much that the world is nothing but a smear of random colors, and my breathing is so shallow that I'm sure that I am about to pass out. I somehow manage to make it back to my seat, collapsing into it. Noelle, seated on my right, pulls her chair over so that our shoulders are touching, and takes my hand in hers. "I know," she says, and that simple act of comfort makes me cry even harder.

The rest of the funeral passes in a blur. I am so wrapped up in my sadness that the only thing that registers is Noelle's hand in mine. In that moment, I am broken, and I am entirely convinced that I will never be whole again.

For nearly two years after the funeral, I visit her grave every day. It sits beneath the oak tree we had spent so much time in when we were kids. On sunny days, the dark grey stone is dappled with sunlight through the leaves, and a hopeful part of me likes to think that Dahlia can somehow feel the warmth. Most days, I sit quietly next to her gravestone, my back against the trunk, and pretend that it's just the two of us again, and everything is just the way it's supposed to be. Some days, though, I talk. These are the worst days, when the pain is totally overwhelming--the dam breaks, and I am powerless to stop the flood.

The first time I miss a day, I don't realize until I am nearly asleep, curled up next to Noelle in our bed. I climb out of our bed without a word to my sleeping girlfriend, and I am halfway out the front door when she stops me. "Where are you going?" she asks, her voice soft.

I turn to her with tears in my eyes. "I have to go see Dahlia," I reply, and her expression crumples.

She places a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Lyra," she says, gentle, loving, "it's okay. She'll still be there tomorrow."

I hover there in the doorway for what feels like hours, torn. I know she's right, but some distant part of me feels like I'll be betraying Dahlia if I just go back to bed.

My mind is made up for me when Noelle tugs me out of the doorway and shuts the door before she curls her arms around me in a warm hug. I crumble, burying my face in her shoulder and sobbing like the wound is still fresh.

For years after that, I visit her once a week instead of every day, and then once a month, and then, only on the anniversary of her death (I eventually decide to visit on her birthday instead--this makes it feel less like being sad that she's gone and more like celebrating that she was here).

I am twenty-seven. It is the day of my yearly visit, and I kneel in the grass in front of her gravestone. Noelle sits next to me, our hands intertwined. "The adoption paperwork just needs to be processed, and it'll finally be official," I say, smiling so hard my jaw hurts.

We'd been fostering a little girl named Eden. Both of us had fallen so in love with her that we couldn't imagine our lives without her.

This is the happiest I have ever been at one of these visits, and though a distant part of me feels guilty about it, I am too caught up in all the positive feelings to really care.

Twelve years ago, everything changed for the worse, and I was convinced that the world was nothing but cold and cruel.

I am still grieving. I don't think that will ever change, but I have finally found my place in the world. I'm happy and in love, and my family is growing.

For the first time, I am completely and entirely content.

Life is good.