A Story about Grief

(Completely random short story I wrote for class. It will most likely be completely unlike anything else on here, but if you really want to kill 5-10 minutes and read it, be my guest!)

I look out the window of my kitchen, staring absently out at the trees behind the house. I turn my dejected gaze to my left. The chair next to me is empty, its leather worn and cracked, worn from thousands of days of use. The back of the chair is covered in a fine layer of dust, I never feel like cleaning that chair. Next to the chair lies a handful of magazines on a small table, mostly about high end clothing, on top is a copy of Vogue from two years ago.

They say that grief is something that everyone handles differently, but I think most people feel it in similar ways. The sudden shock will eventually mellow into a dull feeling of yearning, a yearning which will never be settled. Life goes on, the tides go in and out, and you’re supposed to feel as though nothing happened. The only issue is, something did happen. Something that was like my heart being pulled out, and the fact I have to pretend it didn’t makes me feel like my heart will come out of my mouth and end up on the ground. 

I take a sip of my coffee as I listen to the mail truck pull up down the road. I always like to chat with the mailman, as it keeps me social at the very least. I put on his jacket. It’s a heavy mackinaw, red buffalo check, with a worn tag on the back that reads Filson. You can feel the weight of the fabric pressing down on you, a comforting sort of weight. It’s covered in a thin coating of dried mud from the garden. In its breast pocket is a pack of cigarettes, even though I had never smoked one in my entire life. He smoked golds, he would always say that one day it would kill him. It didn’t kill him, some teenager in his dads pickup did.

As I slid on the jacket, I picked up the scent of tobacco. I should wash the jacket, but you don’t get reminders as good as this often. He would want me to forget, to move on, I’m not going to though, as I like the thought of him more than the presence of anyone else.

“Hello, Mr.Marchand, I don’t have anything for you today, but, I got something for Jerry.”

A lump jumps to the back of my throat, tears start to fill my eyes.

“That’s strange,” I exclaimed in a casual tone “I don’t think he’s around anymore.”

I try to keep the mood light, not everyone knows that Me and Jerry were together, and we liked to keep it that way. I don’t know if our neighbors were exactly the most accepting towards our kind.

“Yeah, well I’ll give you it anyways, that is if you want it.”

“Yeah,” my pain comes through in my shaky voice, “hand it over.”

I close the door softly, grasping the crisp envelope in my hand. The tears that were once at the back of my eyes come to the front, and soon the pain jumps out of my throat. I’m on the floor of my kitchen crying, and it can’t stop. I wipe the tears away with the jacket, a bit of dirt gets in my eyes. Doesn’t matter, I’ll cry it right out.

I look down at the envelope, “From Jen Kennedy, to Jerry Marchand.” He took my last name, it was cute I think. Jen kept her last name, though, she felt if he lost Kennedy, she had to keep it.

I hang my head in my hands, fuck, I don’t want to read this. I put it on top of the Vogue magazine, put the jacket on my coat rack, and sat back down in the kitchen. 

I look at the watch on my wrist. A Tudor Black Bay 36, a gift from a few years back. I would never pay so much for a watch. I was never one for vanity, but sometimes vanity is what you hang onto when you grasp at straws.

The seconds hand makes 12 rotations before I snap out of my trance, and build up enough courage to read the letter.

I look at the small envelope on the table, and sip my coffee. I try to imagine myself as one of the cool movie stars from the 60’s, the kind that didn’t care about any of this trivial shit. He’s gone, and I should just accept that, but everyday I think of him.

Slowly, I rise to my feet, and move towards the envelope. A step here, a step there. It feels like the distance is forever. Time slows, as I feel the stomach acid jump to the back of my throat. Maybe I wasn’t as cool as those movie stars from the 60’s, maybe they were never real to begin with.

My hands touch the dry paper, ripping it open to reveal a handwritten letter. Inside it read “Hello Jerry, I know I haven’t spoken to you in many years, and I am sorry. I know after you had gotten married a lot of us stopped talking to you, and that was wrong. I want to still be a part of your life, despite all of that. On top of that, I would like to let you know that Josh and I are getting married. I didn’t have your number, but I assumed you were in that same old house with Steven. If you can make it, that would be excellent, but if not, call me at 978-436-9234, I really just want to hear how things have been.”

I stared at the letter for some time. My fingers traced each word, each letter. There were no tears, just the dull feeling you get when you survive a car crash. I could feel my head swivel over to my phone on the counter, and back to the letter. Jen had believed Jerry was alive this whole time. Nobody bothered to tell her. At that moment I felt rage towards everything. I wanted to rip Jerry’s family’s lungs out.

I dial the number, I want Jen to feel the pain I do. I want her to see the white Toyota Corolla balled up like a failed math test. To know that what you love can be taken away. To not take life for granted. I want her to see the oil slick tracing its way to that crumpled up ball of paper we hurdle down the highway at 80mph everyday of our lives.

“Hello,” a familiar voice answers “who is this?”

“It’s Steven,” I feel like I’m shouting down from the space station.

“Oh, my god, Steven, it's great to hear from you! How have things been! Can you put Jerry on the phone? it’s been ages!”

“Jerry died 2 years ago.” It’s like a robot has taken control of me, I’m on autopilot

The next few seconds are silent. The wind has been knocked out of both of us. In this moment I realize that even though I lost a husband, she lost a brother. We both loved him. I don’t own the rights to this suffering any more than she does.

“I’m so sorry,” her voice lowered to a whimper.

“I am too, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you guys. I didn’t think you wanted anything to do with us.”

“Don’t be sorry, we didn’t reach out, it’s not your fault.”

When you share a seat on the train with a stranger, it’s not that awkward. Most likely you’ll never see that person again, and they’ll never see you. The silence we shared was not like this. It was sticky.

“We’re here if you need someone to talk to, and you can still come to the wedding,” she states in the blunt voice of a police officer telling you why your husband didn’t come home that night.

“Sure, I’ll think about it, thanks Jen.”

“Love you, Steven.”

“Love you too, Jen.”

That’s it. The day carries on, as it has always carried on.