@anthonyscribbles
My brother lives with his wife in Los Angeles. Mine passed last December. I don't like Christmas so much anymore. Our house was humble, but well-kept, and it sold for a good sum.
Luis and Jean live in an apartment. They've invited me for the holidays.
The plane landed at 1:52 am, and in all the time it took me to call a Lyft, the sky's gone from the color of Her funerary gown to the subtle purple of Her favorite nail polish.
Lights flicker in their window—the only ones on in the building. I'm hypnotized by the silent rhythm. As cold air stings my nostrils, all I can do is stare at the warmth inside, until Her hand on my hip nudges me up a step. I ring the doorbell.
Jean buzzes me in. She meets me at their door. We exchange a kiss on the cheek, and she asks about the blood under my nose. Must be from the cold.
We wait for Luis over a mug of Ibarra and a concha. Jean's working on a new script, but she's hit a wall, and no one's looking for scripts these days, anyway. The details are lost on me as my eyes wander around their living room. There are colors everywhere, but a yellow glow permeates the whole apartment. Where the hell is it coming from? Their tree is a real pine, dressed in ornaments I recognize from our childhood.
Ibarra was our favorite hot cocoa, but the smell brings a gag to my throat. My eyes have tried to avoid my mug, but there's nothing left to look at. Steam swirls above the cream. Her hand guides my wrist. We lift the mug to my lips; it's sweeter than I remember.
A key jiggles in the door, and Luis walks in. After a 24-second hg, he comments that I haven't even touched my concha; how unlike me. I fumble with my words. Luis quiets me with a pat on the shoulder. He asks if I want to "hit the sack."
In the darkness of their living room, silence beats against my ears. Somewhere, a clock ticks and tocks, barely audible. I close my eyes. Luis used to tell me to focus on something when I had night terrors as a kid, but the clock is making me nervous. Focus. I relish the cool air on my skin. I feel it pour over my arms, dip my feet in it, and welcome it into my lungs, until Her warm hand cradles my cheek. The past year has taught me not to open my eyes, or to reach out for Her.
Luis has to wash my pillowcase in the morning. He guesses it's too dry for my nostrils, so he digs a humidifier out of the closet. It's a Saturday, and the plan is shopping.
Dragging my feet through the mall is supposed to do me good, but I've long since dropped the habit of going out. Still, I keep an eye out for something Jean or Luis might like. And yet, sorting through countless racks of ugly clothes that neither would ever wear is utterly exhausting. By the time we're leaving, they each carry at least two bags, while my hands remain empty. What was I doing wrong? Her fingers intertwine with mine, and keep me from despair.
Back at the apartment, I'm given a comprehensive tour of their decorations, down to the last cotton-ball snowman. It's actually nice. That evening, I manage a few bites of dinner, and without much help from Her. Still, it takes a few whispers in my ear before I nod off.
Sunday is for staying inside, Jean tells me, so we watch Peanuts Christmas specials and other cartoons. I laugh when Snoopy sticks his bell onto Lucy's nose, which makes Luis laugh, and then Jean, until all three of us are falling over each other in a cackling mess. My cocoa almost ends up on the rug, but even if it had, I know that it'd be alright. Luis wraps his arm around me. I let my head rest on his shoulder. From his other side, Jean squeezes my hand.
Sleep comes easily with a full belly, and I wake up to the soft ruckus of a rushed breakfast and a kiss goodbye at the door. Jean notices me awake, and asks if I want anything to eat. In the greatest upset of the season, I respond that I'll cook for myself, it she'll lend me her kitchen. She tells me to knock myself out. With considerable effort, I serve up a disastrous omelet—with cheese. Jean and I spend the day in quiet company; the clacking of her keyboard is pleasant as I flip through channels.
After breakfast, she'd left a pencil and a notepad on the coffee table. We don't have any sketchbooks, Jean explains, but she hopes I can make do—if I want to. The pencil is untouched by the time Luis gets home, and a sense of guilt nips at my heels when I stand to greet him. He points at the notepad and gasps if I've drawn today. Now, the guilt is gnawing at my leg. I shake my head. Does he want to go for a walk, I ask.
At the park down the street, Luis asks how I've been. Mami y Papi missed me at Thanksgiving, and everyone was worried that I hadn't even answered the phone on my birthday. My brother stops walking and takes a serious tone. What have I been doing, he asks. I answer only with a blank stare, and relive the last few months in that moment. Every sleepless night, every silent meal, every hobby that fizzled out like a candle that's burned too long, every piece of Her that had to be sorted into "Keep" or "Discard." I recall every moment of Her funeral: I see the image of her purple dress, the veil over Her face because I couldn't bear the thought of looking at Her, lifeless. I see Her wedding ring and the shape of Her body in a stark gray coffin, with plush white walls for the comfort of Her corpse. I feel the wind that slapped me as She was lowered into the earth, and smell the dirt I threw into the hole to start the burial.
I've been missing Her, I tell him.
Hot tears burn a path down my face, and Luis holds me tight. He knows, he knows it hurts, or at least he says he does. I do my best to believe him, but I can't stop crying until I feel Her ruffling the hair on the back of my head.
At dinner, only two sets of silverware echo in the apartment. Jean wraps tinfoil over my untouched plate and leaves it in the fridge. You can eat it tomorrow, she tells me. There's no mention of amoive, or any other activity before bed. Just a heavy atmosphere as we all say goodnight.
The clock is back, and it's louder tonight. I try to enjoy the cold, but it feels like I'm burning. More and more details of the night begin to discomfort me, until I hear Her footsteps emerge from the hallway. I shut my eyes, and listen as the floorboards creak nearer to my ear. Near my feet, Her weight rests on the couch. All is right in the world again. Almost. Only Her hand on mine is missing, but She won't hold me. Time passes, and I grow worried. I reach for Her. Nothing. Slowly, I peek. As soon as my eye is open, everything shifts: Her weight is gone, Her warmth is gone, Her comfort has vanished.
Looking around, I can't see much, but a whisper finds my ear. She's calling my name. I follow the sound, and rise from the couch. Come with me, She says. I step towards Her voice. The walk feels too long, but I don't notice until I stub my toe on some kind of box. Straining to see, I watch as it takes the shape of a long gray coffin, sealed and decorated with white lilies. On my back, I feel Her hands and behind my ear, I can hear Her voice. Get in, She says. The box looma at my feet, my heart races as I stare at it, and reach out to touch the lid. Get in, She says again. I open the coffin and sit on the rim. Get. In. I look back at Her, but there's only my brother's apartment. I try to swing my leg back over the edge, but the coffin wants me. With all my will, I fight to lift myseld, to resist the pull of the lilies and the cushions and the voice that demands I get in. The floor rumbles, the walls quake, the voice gets louder and louder, and I begin to understand that it was never Her, that She was never with me after I threw the dirt into that hole, and that every time I'd thought I'd seen Her or heard Her or felt Her had been a lie, and I scream because it hurts and somewhere far away, the clock's alarm goes off, but I have to scream louder than it because if I don't, I'm sure the coffin will take me.
Luis grabs my shoulders and throws me to the floor. Jean jumps over us and closes the window. It's still dark outside; soon, the purple sky will turn red. The coffin is gone. So is Her voice. The only arms that cradle me now are Luis', and I let myself melt into his embrace. He dries my tears and tells me he knows. This time, I believe him.