How differently the river gleams now that you’re gone—Roberta Hill Whiteman
I need help. Heaps and heaps of help.
Since my sister’s murder, I’ve recognized that I cannot do it alone. God knows, I tried…I tried…I damn well tried.
At last, I surrendered.
Before getting out of bed each morning (I dread getting out of bed) I say:
“Jesus, you allowed the best person in my universe to die. I have nothing left to give you. Take it all. My heart. My words. My body. My mind. My dreams. My soul. Just take it.”
Did you imagine I’d be okay after four months, four years, the rest of my life? Did you suppose I’d go to go back to my old ways and discuss irrelevant, ridiculous, idiotic gossip?
Did you assume I’d be unchanged?
If so, stop reading this blog.
You don’t know shit.
Your sun may be balmy and brilliant… but mine has moved to Oneonta Cemetery.
Your moon may be illuminating your nights…but mine has darkened in the sky.
I schedule an appointment to see a psychologist, a shrink, a counselor, whatever people label them nowadays.
I observe Lake Superior from his window. Silky. Soothing. Ships flowing into port. Waves rolling into shore. An acceptable site for mourning people to dwell upon while they get sewn back up.
“If I could give you a pill to take away the pain, would you take it? he asks.
“Yes, do you have one?” I answer.
“That’s not the answer I was looking for,” he smiles a half smile. “If you don’t feel the pain now, you’ll feel it later. Do you still want that pill?”
‘Yes,” I say again.
“What do you miss about your sister the most?”
“Her presence. Her existence. HER everything.” Then I look him square in the face and say in a loud voice, “I WANT HER BACK!”
Silence. Too long. Too awkward.
“Well, she’s gone.” He finally replies.
WOW, did you figure that out all by yourself? Did you obtain your PhD from “Dumb-Ass University?
But I just utter “Yeah, I know. I get it.”
Weeping. Regret. Anger. Sadness. Hopelessness.
“If only I’d been there. If only I had taken her out of that hell hole. I might have saved her. If only…If only…”
“You know what that’s called–STINKIN’ THINKIN,’Kim, What you’re doing right now is Stinkin’ Thinkin.’”
You’re an imbecile. You’re a dip shit. I hate you. Don’t look at me. Have you ever lost part of your soul, your life, your heart? Have you ever lost anything in your entire Stinkin’- Thinkin’-$200.00-per- hour- life, you Freudian Freak?
“Yep, Stinkin’ Thinkin. Now, reflect on the good things, Kim. Think about the enjoyable things you did together. Your hugs. Your holidays. Your carefree days. Grasp unto those thoughts and hold them tightly.”
He lifts up a hand and closes it abruptly as if catching a butterfly.
She was murdered. Shot in the head three times. KILLED. Assassinated. Now she’s GONE. And you want me to talk about the carefree days?
“Yep, I’ll grasp onto those sweet thoughts,” I murmur snottily.
He looks at his watch. “Well this session is complete, Kim. Make another appointment with the front desk, alright?”
I don’t make another appointment.
Rather, I meet girlfriends for Merlot, hot artichoke dip, brushetta, and tears.
I tell my story over and over again. I tell my story until my napkin is drenched with salt and snot and stained with mascara.
I tell my story.