Reflection

My friend lives alone in an apartment a block from where she works. She’s a single mother, freshly separated from her husband, and she struggles to find a babysitter, to quit smoking, to pay her bills. It’s a common story: a young woman trying with bitten-to-the-nub fingernails to scrape out a living.

I gave her a ride to Walmart yesterday. We hadn’t seen each other in a while, not since I was laid off from our mutual workplace just before COVID really began. We talked about everything: her husband, her son, her new boyfriend, one of the managers at her work getting shot by her own husband. We talked about COVID and bad fathers, about the scarcity of toilet paper and how bad we are at communicating. We promised to make plans. We both want to; we both miss each other too deeply to truly express. It sounds cheesy because it is, but a part of me knows that the grief of missing someone—even if they’re only a few miles away and you’re lucky enough to be able to gas up your car—is more than just a feeling right then. It’s a culmination of abandonment issues, trauma, and worthlessness. You want to be there with them always. To help until they scream at you to go away because at least then you know you’ve thoroughly done your job.

When I finally left, she walked me out. Lit a cigarette. I drank up the smell. It reminds me of Christmastime when my dad, uncle, and grandpa would smoke cigars in the backyard. Isn’t it funny how something so eager to kill you can carry your best memories on its back? I played music I thought she would like as I drove home. I thought of the way my childhood was: empty cupboards, bare fridge, unpaid bills, a father who only came back a few times a year, a mother who could hardly hold herself together. I thought of my parents’ divorce. I thought of the things that tie my friend and me together, and then I counted the lines we had drawn in proverbial sand.

I struggle to find my catharsis. Deep inside my belly, there’s something that needs to be said between us. Something that will take away all the scars and broken hearts we’ve endured. How I wish I could find the words to heal her. I think, maybe, that’s what we all wish for: an immediate fix. I want it to be as simple as a sentence. Just a noun and a verb and a period. Maybe then I can say this cure-all to myself, speak it into my bones and will that fire of my youth to return. Maybe then I could finally, finally begin to heal.