things left behind by Liz McDonough

things left behind

“Deep in its core, the star is fighting a futile battle against its own gravity. As it desperately tries to stop itself collapsing under its own weight...” Shareeka Helaluddin, TAKE BACK THE VOID

One day later

The silence is deafening. I think of it as physical matter that I must pass through and be within. As my awareness increases, the louder and thicker it becomes. It consumes me, blocking conscious thought. I hide under blankets and pillows to lessen its force. I must overpower the silence before it engulfs me and swallows me whole. I am still, but I am shattering. Pieces of me are splintering off, ricocheting far and wide. Gravity ceases to exist and the boundaries of time open as my ashes scatter across seas, cities, buildings, and spaces. Corners of the world once meaningless made meaningful through our shared experiences. A small piece of me now lives in every place we’ve been and seen together. Particles of hope called upon to take their rightful place in time and space - to hold sentiment still; stiff as a Queen’s Guard. And although the pieces have strewn, their weight remains heavy. ...the cabin on the beach in Iceland, the corner of the jazz club in New Orleans, the hotel in Brooklyn, the diner in Kingston, the garage apartment in Vermont.

I feel as though I’m a ghost wandering aimlessly in mourning clothes. Lacking purpose, expressionless, pale; no motivation or ambition to change out of a shirt he left behind. I feel self conscious as if I’m being watched, albeit no one is watching. I keep waiting for him to pull back into the driveway, though I know he won’t. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because another goodbye would break us both. Our bodies would cease to function - overwrought with emotion, we would fall flat and motionless in the icy snow, melt in the chill of the winter sun. No, once was enough.

He hasn’t been gone an hour and I find myself scouring the house for traces of him - as though each discovery exhales his life back into the house. A pile of coins on his workbench, a discarded receipt, a push pin left where a photograph once hung - simple objects made enigmatic through their ability to transcend time. I become infatuated with crafting a narrative when I would normally pass by. My intention, as I’ve come to understand it, is to find these tangible fragments of time in an effort to be transported. Though fleeting, I can live in these moments for a breath or two and savor the flicker of dopamine they provide. Sustaining myself until the next hit. Should I rush through or move slowly? Will one hurt more than the other?

I find comfort in all of the quiet witnesses I’m surrounded by. A bookcase, a table, a bed. There is a sense of solidarity in their presence as though I’m not alone, but instead, in a room with old friends. They were here with me before, during, and after the war. We are sharing in the observance of grief. I walk around the house and feel their eyes lower. Especially those particular things that have moved with me through life’s boundless transitions; the couch from my first apartment in New York, a lamp from my childhood home, the Bonsai that has weathered time with me for the past 10 years. My silent but loyal comrades. I am grateful for their company. And perhaps it’s the tools that become most interwoven in our narrative. The kinship that comes with a mutually beneficial relationship. I provide a comfortable, safe place to live. Keep them clean and dry. And in return, they provide a sense of security, a reliable service; the blanket that kept us warm, the champagne glasses we celebrated with, the loofah that kept us clean. Objects are the soul of the spaces they occupy. Without them, a room is just a void. Seeing an empty room that was once full is heartbreaking. The life and meaning it once held now wiped clean as though it was never there at all. If only it were that simple.

The speed with which we interpret the feelings we experience is astounding. We’re struck with the slightest sensation and immediately, without effort, our brain identifies the cause. I wonder how often our natural tendency to pinpoint an explanation fails us - how often we might be wrong. Just as our actions are typically innate and a direct result of routine, perhaps our brain reacts the same way when our emotions are triggered; “It’s okay, we’ve felt this many times before, and here’s why,” she says, as though the diagnosis lessens the blow. I suppose it’s easier to charter waters navigated before, so there’s a sense of relief that comes with the familiarity. Or perhaps we’re just afraid to uncover the deeper reasons why we’ve found ourselves in such a state. When I find myself overcome with melancholia as I am now, I recognize it as being more than just a result of my most recent circumstance. It’s a culmination of all the tragedies I’ve lived through. I feel them so deeply. The dark, embedded aches within my heart are awakened with each new wound. I am full of cauterized scar tissue that continues to rip open and heal over. Some hurts will always live within us and I am aware that mine are always looking for new opportunities to grieve.

My despair begins to mutate and it grows a limb I call Preservation. I look upon the act of cleaning as something sacrilegious, “how could I possibly wipe his hand print off the kitchen table and erase his memory there forever?” I think, though quite irrationally. I avoid wiping surfaces, washing dishes, cleaning bed sheets - as if through this preservation I can restore what has been lost. I choose to keep the ghosts around. Stopping time in order to move forward. I try to remember the sounds associated with those ghosts the mundane act of refilling his coffee cup, brushing his teeth, walking up the stairs, pulling into the driveway. I try but I don’t believe my memory - why are we unable to recall sounds and smells the way we do images? And why do they have to be still?

My preservation has a nemesis pushing back, and just as soon as I want to keep everything, I want it gone. Similar to how one doesn’t want to be the last to fall asleep, I don’t want to be the last holding on to what was, what could have been. The one struggling to let go in the wake of another’s remission. I start to clean everything. Move furniture, paint walls, hang pictures, throw away towels, sheets, and sponges. All while gasping for air, mind racing, temperature rising with one trembling finger left on the ledge afraid to let go and move beyond this moment. But when I stop moving the silence comes back, so I must push on. This day now represents a milestone within the timeline of my life, a watershed moment. An event to base future recollections on, “was it before or after?” - a clear line has been drawn.

I’m not sure if it’s easier to know the end is near and be able to orchestrate those final moments or if in some ways it’s more tolerable to lose someone without warning and preparation. I suppose both are equally painful and depending on which hand you’re dealt, you’re bound to prefer the alternative. Our last dinner together felt like ordering a final meal on death row. Food I would normally savor is rotten in my mouth. My hunger recedes as my body is crushed with pressure on all sides. The pressure of forcing myself to relish in and embrace the end of our time together, trying to make it last – all the while eager for it to end, to get it over with, to move into the state of impending pain I know is coming, so why delay it any longer? I’m sure it’s hard to be the one to pack up and leave, but it’s equally hard to stay. This home will forever hold our memories and I cannot escape them, regardless of how many times I rearrange the furniture.

As neighbors slept through mournful sighs We said our goodbyes As the rain fell and the sun gave rise We said our goodbyes With full hearts and tired eyes We said our goodbyes Our final words without reprise We said our goodbyes

It was quiet and inconspicuous, and yet it was loud and overwhelming, powerful and diminishing…..

As I write and reflect I realize these words are not only for me. If they were, I might take less care and opt to spill myself all over the page. Allow speed to guide my self expression so I no longer have to actively harbor my thoughts. Write incoherently, color outside of the lines. Jumbled, confused, heavy-hearted - anything but deliberate. On the contrary, I write them with tact and intention. I proofread and edit again and again. I project how they might be perceived and select my words carefully. Yet at the same time, I can’t imagine sharing these thoughts with anyone else. But since you are you and not me, and you have come this far, it’s clear I made the choice to share my musings. I hope that you find solace here.