Torn Away

I realized that the worst part of someone you love dying suddenly isn't the saying good-bye part. It's the part where you hope you said and did enough good stuff to make up for the bad stuff. It's the part where there are no second chances, no going back, no more opportunities to tell them how you feel about them.

I've been thinking a lot about the word "everything." Whenever something horrible happens, you hear people say they "lost everything." They lost their house or their car or their stuff or whatever, and to them it feels like everything. But they have no idea what it's like to lose everything. I thought I knew, but now I realize even I haven't lost everything, because I still have that polka-dot swimsuit in my memory. I still have those ice cream nights and the scorpion that scared Marin and the Barking Bulldogs sweatshirt and the robins-egg-blue nail polish. Somehow having those things makes the other things matter less. I'm wondering if it's even possible to lose "everything" or if you just have to keep redefining what "everything" is.

Growing up, we were taught over and over again what steps to take in case of an approaching tornado. Listen for sirens, go to your basement or cellar, or a closet in the center of your house, duck and cover, wait it out. We had drills twice a year, every year, in school. We talked about it in class. We talked about it at home. The newscasters reminded us. We went to the basement. We practiced, practiced, practiced. But we’d never— not once— discussed what to do after.

It was one thing to lose the people you love. That happens to everybody. But it was another thing to lose them because you just... faded away. I didn't want to fade away.

...But would that be enough? Because at the moment it felt like it could never be enough. People needed more than a place to stay, more than a porch to sleep on. They needed a home, right? They needed love.

But it was too much. All of it was too much. I didn't know what I was feeling, but I knew I needed some time alone, some space to think about everything.

Welcome to the Midwest, Mom used to say. Where the weather keeps you guessing and you're almost always sure to hate it.

Nobody was coming to rescue me. Nobody was going to keep me safe. It was all up to me now.

I thought everything I knew about you might have been a lie, but since meeting him and your parents, I've realized that the parts of you I knew weren't untrue; they were only part-truths. There were lots of things about you that I didn't know, and learning those things has actually been comforting in a way. They make me feel closer to you. And I can see that actually there's one real truth, and that is you loved me enough to do anything it took to protect me. I think that's something I've known my whole life. I'm thankful for it.

I realized that the worst part of someone you love dying suddenly isn't the saying goodbye part. It's the part where you wonder if they knew how much you loved them. It's the part where you hope you said and did enough good stuff to make up for the bad stuff. It's the part where there are no second chances, no going back, no more opportunities to tell them how you feel about them.

I had so much going on in my heart, and it didn't often go together or make sense or even stay the same from moment to moment. How did I speak from a heart that didn't undersand itself?

I didn't care. I didn't care about anything anymore. What did it matter? What did anything matter now? I was alone. I had no home, no family, nowhere that I belonged. In that moment, I finally and truly understood what it meant to have nothing to lose.

After he left, I tried not to let my mind wander, tried not to think about the small things I'd lot in the tornado especially not with Mrs. Dempsey covered by a shower curtain a couple houses down, but I couldn't help myself. My clothes, my earrings, my music. Granted, I didn't have trendy clothes or expensive earrings, but if it had all blown away...I had nothing. Even a few cheap somethings is better than nothing.