mention of death
──
COLD AIR BITES into my lungs, the wind whips my hair back, and my steps pound in time with my heartbeat.
My breaths are harsh and anguished, my eyes exhaustive and filled with tears as the ground beneath blurs.
I continue running, but to where that might be, I don't know. But I understand I need to get out of here, away from those inimical, racing thoughts that devour me.
Gut-wrenching, heart pumping— after several more minutes my legs become tired, and I divert to a walk.
I can see the vivacious and glowing lighting of the shop as I wander across the vast parking lot, outside the shop were each with an umber vintage-style umbrella.
Outside the sidewalk that will bustle in a few short hours is quiet, the concrete oblivious to whether it is midday or midnight. The cafe wasn't my destination, but it'd do.
I make my way through the transparent glass door, a blanket of warm air hits me and the rich aroma of coffee which is savoury.
The coffee shop is once cloistered and closed, so many tables and so little room, that is part of it's charm. The air swirls with aromatic dreams, little wonder it is a place we artists are drawn to.
As I lift my gaze, I groan, biting my lip, eyes everywhere but on him. We are the only ones in the street corner café. The heat from the inside fogs the windows, forming a barrier between us and the outside world, entangling me inside with memories of him.
Suddenly I'm fifteen again, and he is carrying the latte to my table and sitting down in the booth with me. Our meetings then became a routine: every Sunday at 7 pm; he'd bring me my latte, and we would chitchat for hours, staying until they shut.
"What will you have?" I am so startled that when I whip around to look at the person behind the counter, my arm clumsily crashes over the sugar on a nearby table.
The gruff man behind the counter stares at me like I've lost my mind. I laugh it off, tell him that I'll clean the sugar up, and search my pockets for money.
My throat is dry and sore; every lungful is aching. "Can I have a medium hot chai latte, double steamed and a strawberry muffin?"
"Absolutely, that will be —"
"$7.69" I interrupt his statement and grin. The man doesn't make eye contact, but he lets out a muffled laugh.
"I'll have it out for you in a minute." He turns around and goes to work.
Then Kohen moves closer with those eyes that look so deeply into my own, "You still have an awful taste in beverages, cinnamon is fucking terrible."
There is something about that gaze of his, his eyes are so different at this moment, softer somehow, it is the eyes of the boy I once fell for, the one who kept his arms around me, skin against skin, hands intertwined.
I reach out and grab the warm beverage, bringing it to my lips. The invigorating smoky taste of chai is heavenly, there is a sweet aftertaste of cinnamon. "Good morning to you, too."
I sit in the corner booth and drink my latte alone in silence. Occasionally, I make eye contact with him. He does a lot to act busy, but we don't talk.
• • •
I step outside, closing my eyes and everything seems so serene that it is as if time itself has ceased altogether, and a shortlived ripple of calm rushes over me.
New York City, I still cannot believe it.
I begin to hear a soft hum in my ears and I reopen my eyes, suddenly brought back to reality as cars rush by.
When I emerge from the tight way leading out to the cemetery, I see that the colour of the sidewalk and street matches the tone of the sky.
Whenever I wander these parts, I know I am alone. Maybe that's why I like the graveyard; it contained the stillness I always crave. But today, I am not alone. I have this peculiar feeling, a sensation that itches at the back of my brain, unable to ignore. Maybe it is just my skeptical character working on overtime again, but the feeling still lingers.
I feel prickling under my skin, making goosebumps rise. A sudden breeze whiskes my hair into my face and I shiver in response, breathing in the aged air.
I step through the grounds, dodging forgotten graves. A few candles have been lit and placed in memory, while others had died out in the duration of the night. Perishing flowers bloom in this graveyard, and the majority of graves have a bouquet on top. Others have weather-destroyed notes which had been attacked by the weather, which are nothing but an emulsion of colours now.
My feet gingerly tread lightly over the snow until I am there, my eyes resting on his name, my heart hearing the sound of his voice as if he were right there with me. Perhaps it is the memories that are the real bridge, that sense of love a key to open doors into the worlds beyond, yet here I am in the graveyard, these moments of reflection of our everlasting bond.
I kneel down on the ground and clasp my hands together. Within a while, a little snow is scattered over. In one switch movement, everything goes away. My fingers trace the carved letters, it is carved so delicately but is now slowly eroding away.
I stare down at the grave and many cold tears tickle down my cheek, falling down to the earth where he now rests, forever near a tranquil, tree-lined creek.
It's peaceful, there is a certain poetry to it. It's nice finding those peaceful moments in the darkness.
I suppose I'm selfish, I simply couldn't bring myself to visit him here after he died, not after watching the life drain from him.
For a long while after his loss, it felt like they coloured my entire world. Every memory, past and present, felt cloaked in incredible sadness. My waking and dreaming life were completely consumed by mourning - and the transition is disorienting. The suddenness and permanence of death carry a physical weight. It drains the world of colour. It casts you into a sea of deep, thrashing waves, and you feel powerless to stay afloat above the blackened pitch of it. Submerged in grief, in dreams, in the interstices between awake and dreaming where you realize at the outset of every new day that this is, in fact, real -it levels you. Grief is a feeling of drowning, of becoming a husk of your former self, of being completely helpless to combat a loss that feels more like a piece of you has been bored out and taken away than it does something external.
The truth is, the grief never leaves us. It has been seven years since he died. On long bike rides, on rainy evenings sitting on my balcony smoking, and on bridges when I look over the edge and see the water beneath me pulsing with the tide, I whisper little messages to him. "I am carrying you with me through this wide and wild world."
The fact is, we are undone by each other. We are undone by grief. We are undone by the person we lost and the pieces of ourselves they take with them when they go.
Everything I've ever done has been in a desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending ruin.
I don't notice the sound of someone approaching until the crunch of snow stops and I look up, blinking away the remaining frail tears, it's him.
Kohen sits down beside me, legs crossed. "Guess we both had the same idea, huh?"
He sees the shock register on my face before I can hide it. "I kind of owe it to him, you know? He was like a father to me as well, treated me better than my father."
"He loved you, he always spoke very highly of you." I hesitate, "It's just a dreadful feeling, sometimes it feels like he's just on a trip and I'll see him again soon and when I realize I won't it's a pang of hurt."
"Sometimes, you should let yourself feel the loss. Let yourself be swallowed by it. Know that this is okay. And know, too, that you are also grieving the pieces of yourself that were lost, too."
To my absolute horror, hot torrents of grief course down my flush cheeks. I hiss a breath through clenched teeth. But the strength has left, even as I attempt to stand. My throat holding back something between a sob and a shout.
I clutch at the gold necklace hanging from my neck, it seems to press white-hot against my skin. "Why wasn't I enough for him to stay, to stop using and to keep living? It's just such a difficult thing knowing that I could have averted it, in one way or another."
He gently caresses his thumb, back and forth, against my knuckles. "He was a struggling addict, and he actively did not want to stop. There was just... nothing you can do. It's heartbreaking, but there it is."
The words sink into my chest at the pitiful shake of his head. The "I'm sorry" that follows chokes my breath from my lungs.
He embraces me and lets the torrent of my tears soak through his shirt. I clench my fists, not knowing whether to be mad or to give up altogether. I am silently screaming, suffocating with each breath I take holding onto my pride. He runs his fingers through my hair, time and time again, in an attempt to calm the silent war within my mind.
He looks at me with a kind expression. "He would be so fucking proud of you, Serenity."
I force up a throaty laugh, "I hope so. I should, uh, really leave, Vivienne is likely just waking now."
"Why don't I walk you home, just in case?"
Even before he finishes his sentence, I am already shaking my head, "Thank you, but I'm fine. Or I will be."
He frowns, "Are you sure?"
"I'm certain. I just truly don't know how I can thank you for this."
He smiles, that smile is the prettiest thing I've seen in a while, I could see how it came from deep inside to light his eyes and spread into every part of him. I heard it in his voice, in the choice of his words and in the way he relaxed. It is beautiful. "You can thank me by letting me walk you home."
I touch away the remaining tears and prop my hands on my hips, giving him a look that tells him he's irritating, "Fine but you have to buy me another cinnamon latte."
• • •
I stand beside Kohen, watching him order two lattes and two dreamy chocolate chunk cookies. Christmas carols play over the loudspeaker, filling the space with exciting anticipation of the season.
I stop, and I watch him hand the latte to me, his latte always in hand; a goofy grin plastered to his face, but somehow, there is a hint of something else behind his mocha-coloured eyes, something I can't quite put my finger on.
He hurries to hold the door open, "Are you excited for the holidays?"
"I suppose so. I love decorating the place with stockings and spiced cookies on the tree. The atmosphere all around is different too, you know? It's like a little light on dark and chilly days."
"You're forgetting the best thing about the holidays, time off work."
I smile. "Yeah, silly me. It must have slipped my mind."
My feet glide across the smooth, slick ice, the sneakers slowly wearing into the invisible ice before I can warn him, his foot catches in a grove and he's falling onto the cold, unforgiving ground while sliding ever so slightly.
I stare at him and watch him bang his cold hand on the ground in frustration, pushing himself up onto his knees and then he stands up excruciatingly slowly as he tries to balance his wobbly legs, it is my kind of atmospheric pleasure.
I match his pace holding back small giggles. When he is steady again and along the excluded cobblestone passages, he turns to acknowledge my silent laughter. "What? Is this funny to you?"
My dam of self-control breaks and I burst into full-hearted laughter, doubling over in gasping breaths afterward. He stands there glaring at the back of my head until I straighten out again.
"Are you alright?"
He gives me a stern glare that in return makes me grin. "Yes, just fine. Thank you for asking."
I smile bittersweetly, "Of course, anything for you."
I halt and watch his eyes follow my gaze, "My flat is just ahead on the left. I'll be able to pay you next week for the latte and the cookies."
Kohen shakes his head, "No need to, it was on me."
He leans in close to my ear. "As for the grief, that I know you're feeling, in the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you continuously without mercy. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart."
"When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, or the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing."
"But in between waves, there is life. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. You can see it coming, for the most part, and you prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side."
He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, "The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too."
The waves are 10 seconds apart and don't even give me time to catch my breath. They are surging me, drowning me, and I'm struggling to keep my head above the watery crypt that waits to swallow me entirely.
I am mesmerized by his walk as he rounds the corner out of my view with one transient glance back at me, leaving me with the poundage of what he just said.
──
authors' note :
hello hello! this was a heartbreaking chapter to write and my heart aches for serenity. but everything will work out in the end, right?
wc : 2522
thank you for reading! have a great rest of your week!!