Don't Fear The Reaper

{xviii. too cold for hell}

❝Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.❞

-Macbeth by William Shakespeare

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Abuela dies in her sleep 3 days later.

I come home from play practice that Monday already in sour mood. At first, I think the tender awkwardness of reciting lines with Veronica and the misery of being on stage without Will is the worst thing that can happen to me that day, but then...

We get the call from Uncle Kosmo, who got the call from Uncle Camilo. Mama says the whole southern side of the family is going to the memorial service on Wednesday; however, we're not able to do the same. Kat begs my mother to let us go, but on such short notice, we're not able to scrape up the funds.

And so, my Monday goes from tolerably bad to straight-up miserable, as many Mondays do. Mama retreats to her bedroom, and Kat runs off to who knows where. I'm left alone, sitting on my bed, my hands shaking. Even though I knew it was coming, the thought that Abuela's no longer down in Havana, cooking ropa vieja and forcing people to drink her soda, makes my heart strangely sore.

I have to wonder if she's in Heaven, now, and if she's made true on her promise to finally find and meet Will. I hope they're happy up there. God knows the rest of us that are still alive aren't.

Sighing deeply, I stand and make my way across the creaking floorboards to the window. The sky is deeply overcast, the rolling hills and cornfields of the valley washed out like a sweater thrown through the laundry one too many times. In the distance, the Hundred Acre Woods have begun to lose their fiery color; though the leaves were blazing with reds and golds only a few weeks ago, the canopy now looks like a faded pile of mud.

Everything I see reminds me of something depressing. The field makes me think of Will, the treehouse makes me think of my past, and the horizon makes me think of my future - or lack thereof. Most of all, the way Ashdown just seems dead reminds me of Abuela, and the feelings I have about her passing.

Part of me feels guilty that I'm not bawling my eyes out. I'm sad, but more for the sake of the rest of my mourning family. Is it selfish of me to be lulled by the knowledge I'll see her again? I don't know. My emotions confuse me, just like my luck.

Yes, I'm sad, but I'm not devastated. It's more a subtle sense of frustration that's gnawing at me.

Everything good seems so far away. I'm stuck in Purgatory, and I can see both Heaven and Earth clearly from here, but as hard as I try, I can't escape the limbo I'm stuck in.

I wish none of this ever happened. I wish I was a kid again, when everything made sense. When so many more things were alive.

Suddenly, a paranormal chill runs through my bones, drawing me out of my mind. I turn my head and almost stumble backwards at the sudden appearance of Mor, who raises his eyebrows. "Oh, and here I thought I'd lost my touch in surprising you."

Recovering quickly, I purse my lips together. "I was... staring off into space. I didn't realize you were there. You don't scare me."

That last part sounds so juvenile, so August, that I think even Mor can tell it's false confidence. My heart is growing weaker with every passing day, and it's getting harder to banter with him like we once did so easily. Only a month and a half ago, he scared the living hell out of me, and I fought that fear with distraught sarcasm.