Skipping Stones

People tell me I seem to be doing better and that time has helped me heal.  They tell me that despite it all, I will eventually find myself again. Maybe they caught me in a moment I was smiling or appeared to be having fun. Maybe they saw the calmness of my soul and took the stillness of the water as a sign that my pain has subsided… Maybe they are wrong. 

Your death was like the universe throwing a giant rock into my pond. It caused violent splashes and ripples of grief that expanded through every part my world. Everyone could see them; It was impossible to hide. But this week marks one year that you’ve been gone, and those ripples have faded and calmed, the waters of my pond have started to still. . But that rock is still there. Nestled in the mud of my core, hidden below my calm surface. It might not be as easy to spot sometimes, but it doesn’t mean it’s gone. That rock will be with me forever, lodged inside of me. Time hasn’t made it any better, it’s just made it easier to hide. 

One year ago today, the heat chocked us and we begged for even the smallest breeze to come through the open back door. You laid on the floor of the room, drinking wine and finding music videos on my lap top with beads of sweat on your forehead. We had spent the majority of the day at my dads for Father’s Day and stayed later than planned, it was now after midnight and I was just starting to pack for my early morning flight the next day. 

The wine in our glasses disappeared just as quickly as we refilled them without hesitation. It’s what we did at night - drank wine, listened to music and talked about life and all of things we wanted to accomplish. I was grateful I had a friend like you that I didn’t have to pretend with. I didn’t have to censer the things I said because you were the one person that understood what it meant to be misunderstood. You knew the darkest parts of me and never turned your back. You even stayed up with me until the early morning hours, miserable in the heat, to make sure I didn’t forget to pack anything I might need. 

Despite the wine, I barely slept that night. I tossed and turned in the heat, kicking my covers violently, forming heaps at the end of my bed. I rushed through my morning routine and willed myself not to forget anything before ordering my Uber and running through the door sweating with frustration and panic. But now, I wonder what I would have done if I had known that it was the last time I would ever see you. Would I have gotten into that Uber? Would I have left in such a frantic hurry, radiating of anxiety over the thought of missing my flight, watching you wave at me from the doorway as the car drove me away? Would I have stayed all together and skipped my trip? Would it have changed anything?

Thursday morning I sat anxious for answers as the lights around the room dimmed. The show was starting, but I couldn’t pay attention. I felt helpless and crippled with unanswered questions. My phone buzzed in my hand, but I couldn’t answer. I sat in the first seat next to the runway, front row closest to the stage - the spot I had earned. I had gotten up early, made it to the venue before the crowd and even tested out the details of each view point before selecting that seat and placing my bad directly on it as my claim. The designer of Self Portrait was just feet in front of me on the stage, explained in his soft Korean voice where the inspiration of his line had come from. My phone buzzed in my hand again, displaying a number I didn’t have saved, but one I recognized from having called earlier. I couldn’t answer it, the show had started and I couldn’t answer. But I needed to talk to him. I sent his call to voicemail and used my thumbs to type out my message as fast as I could, afraid he wouldn’t get it. 

But before my message finished sending, his words illuminated on the screen. . .  

“CJ’s dead. He died Tuesday night. I’m sorry.” My world went dark. 

And then it was Sunday. I was hesitant to make eye contact with anyone, let alone speak. The mixture of heat and grief seemed to choke me and there was a part of me that was silently screaming for everyone to leave so I could crawl back into bed. I wanted to close my eyes and pretend it was a dream. But I forced myself to smile, liquid courage from the shots of vodka giving me the push I needed to make it through that day. I accepted the responsibility of hosting your unity in leu of the bbq you had wanted so badly to have. I didn’t want for everyone’s last memory of you to be a scattered mess of whatever version of your death they heard from whatever grapevine they had heard it from. I wanted them to remember the stories your closest friends cherished and I wanted your life to be celebrated and remembered for how beautiful of a person you were, nothing else.

Covered in glitter and sticky with sweat, waiting for more guests to arrive, I told the few people gathered around me, their eyes boring into me like red hot pitch forks, the story of your birthday weekend in Vegas. I told then of the time we had gotten luckier than we could have ever imagined. Walking through the casino level of our hotel, the three of us had decided to separate from the group and try our luck at video poker. You had spotted a ladybug game earlier in the day and we were on a trek to find it. I wanted to put my money on my spirit animal, but after losing my $20 almost immediately and discovering that the game was not only graphically unappealing, but also not even fun, I had a sting of disappointment over the false magnetic pull it had on us. But as we stood to leave, pockets lighter, you spotted something round and colorful in the cup holder of that machine - a $500 Vegas chip. You gave it to me, and begged me to cashed it in, thinking it was fake. But the women simply took it and placed the money on the counter in front of me. We made a packed to split it evenly and keep our findings to ourselves, proclaiming “what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

I was exhausted from racking my brain, straining for the details of that memory and using what little energy I had to share it. I stepped away for a moment alone. I sat in the grass and looked towards the faces arriving through the gate, all here for the same reason and wondered what it all meant. And then something buzzed around my face before landing on my shift for a moment of rest. It was as if the world stood still and everything around me stopped... except for that beautiful ladybug that crawled towards my face, making sure I knew she was there. She rested just long enough for me to see her before flying off into the thick summer air.

I understood then that my spirit animal wasn’t a symbol of luck, but one of courage and strength. She had appeared to me in some of my toughest times, even when everything appeared perfect on the outside. There was only one other person in the world that knew a ladybug was the sign I needed to know things would be okay - and you had sent her to me in the very moment I needed it. You came to me just like the wind - I couldn’t see you, but I knew you were there. 

And you were probably telling me to fill up my goddamn glass of wine and throw more glitter in my hair.