“We thought he died when I was twelve, and I grieved him.” He stands, shaking his hand and holding his hips. “I’m so sorry. You didn’t ask for any of this.”
I didn’t think what he wanted to share was about a father who hurt his son so badly that even now, when trying to make amends, the wound is deeper than the depths of the ocean. I think he wanted me to be listening ears, so that’s what I’m doing.
“I did ask, and actually…I understand,” I mutter, nodding but staying in place. Sometimes, what we need the most is space and understanding, not advice, not forced proximity, not a hug—space and soft smiles are enough sometimes, so I give him that.
“What do you understand?”
“The complexity of grief.”
A flash of understanding sweeps over him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
The sincerity behind his words is palpable. “Yeah, me too.”
We wait in silence, the music softly playing in the background, our combined sorrow in between us, just like the heavy rain hitting the sidewalk outside. It’s funny howsometimes, it feels like it’s raining inside, and the world shows it too, like Mother Nature knows that some days, you have to let it all out to cleanse, to heal, to move on. Like right now: the tears fall down my face against my will, and Holden’s face softens, still standing.
“I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
I bite my lip, wiping the tear that fell away, and sniffle, holding the ring dangling from my neck in the palm of my hand. “I live in a constant state of sadness and tears. Not your fault.”
He studies me, but he doesn’t pry. “I guess it’s right, what people say.”
“What?” Confusion surely engulfs me.
“That sometimes, the brightest stars are full of fire inside.”
“People say that?”
His deep, rumbly laugh invades the space. “No, but I didn’t know what else to say, and you truly seem so happy.”
“Because I am. I’ve learned to smile and laugh when I can, to cry when I feel like it. Bottling up emotions just ends in anger, and I can’t afford to be angry all the time.”
“I should give that a try.”
“It’s cathartic.”
“You should be a therapist.”
If I had a penny for every time someone told me that, I’d have a lot of money. And the truth is, I’m not doing anything out of the ordinary. But in this day and age, when everyone’s always rushing toward something or thinking about the next thing, nobody stops to listen anymore.
But I do, even if I would be the worst therapist. “Ha, no, thank you. I’m an empath, and I fear I would be sobbing all the time, which is not conducive to business.”
“I feel that.”
I motion with my hands. “You can continue if you want. The tears were more from my own hurt triggered by yours. It happens; it’s not your fault.”
“Who was yours?”
I know immediately what he means. Who did I lose? “My husband.”
In slow motion, his light brown eyes darken to the deepest amber as he searches mine, for a bluff perhaps. His eyes track my hands holding Nick’s ring around my neck, and even the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard lets me know he’s in too deep.
Not knowing what to say mixes with complete shock, which I’m used to. People assume someone as young as me wouldn’t know what it’s like to lose a spouse, that the words widow and widower are reserved for the third quarter of life, not the first. Well, life doesn’t work that way.
“It sucks, I know. No need to say anything, I promise.” I’ve found taking away the expectation others must say something to help is actually helpful. I know people are sorry. I know they feel bad. I know they don’t know what to say, and I would rather give them the words than hear one more ‘he’s in a better place now.’”
“Was that little girl the other day his?” he asks.
Well,that’snot what I was expecting.
