Connected (Connections, #1)(16)

Opening my eyes, the mirror seemed to only reflect the messy room I was standing in. It is not our room, it is not that room, and it is not my room. I smiled because it was just a messy room. Grace wanted to clean it up a million times, but I wouldn’t let her. I wasn’t ready for the memories of that beautiful day, our last day together before getting in his car to be erased, but I knew the memories could never be erased because they were engrained in my mind forever.

Moving away from the dresser and looking around the room again, I asked myself, “What have I become?” But I already knew the answer. I’d become empty, almost completely void of emotion and I didn’t want to be like that anymore. I needed to let time back in this room. I knew I had to put that day away. I needed to become me again. With that thought, I reached down and grabbed my running shoes. I headed towards the door and smiled, but not before snatching my iPod. I would start my day with a run and listen to some music. I would run and clear my head. Then maybe when I came back I’d start what I knew I should have already started.





EVERY STORM RUNS OUT OF RAIN



Every storm has a last raindrop

Just like the darkness turns to dawn

The pain of losing someone fades away

Every storm has a last raindrop

But the pain of lost love never really goes away.





November 2011 - Present Day





Fall is in the air. There is a cool breeze all around me blowing orange, yellow, and red leaves in circles. As I exit the park to head back to my house, I pass by a bunch of kids raking leaves into piles and then watch as they jump in, carefree, with no worries about what lies beneath. I wonder what I would feel if I were to jump into those leaves.

I have been running almost every day. Running makes me feel human again; it sets my mind free and allows me to forget everything. I ran five miles this morning and felt like I could have pushed myself another five, but I promised Aerie I would meet her for lunch. I have been meeting her for lunch at least twice a week and for dinner almost every Friday night.

Walking through the front door I notice the boxes, some labeled, some still empty, piled in the corners and know I should finish packing up his things. Maybe later. I’ve started sleeping in my room again. On the nights that I wake up thinking he is still here, I end up sleeping on the couch, but that is happening less and less these days and so are the nightmares of his fatal shooting.

After taking a shower in my bathroom, I go out to the garage. His car is parked next to mine, our surfboards are in the corner, and our water gear is piled on the shelves. He’s just everywhere but nowhere at all.

As I drive to the restaurant I notice familiar surroundings that remind me of him as I do every time I leave the neighborhood. He’s at the corner bus stop where he would drop off Mr. Langston, our elderly neighbor, every Wednesday morning. He’s at the drug store, where he would go whenever he ran out of something, always in a hurry. Reminders of him are everywhere.

As memories flood my mind and thoughts of what used to be cloud my vision, I finally understand what I have to do to get myself out of the pouring rain that I have been standing in for over a year. It is today, as I drive down my street, what used to be our street that I finally realize it is time for my own personal storm to end. No umbrella can stop me from getting wet while living in that house, what used to be our house. It’s like the thunder has finally stopped crackling in my head, and as the clouds begin to move away, tiny rays of sunshine start to filter in. I know I have to move out of the home we once shared.

Walking into the restaurant, I smile as I spot Aerie right away in her jet-black suit and hot-pink blouse, all buttoned up and put together. I glance down at myself in jeans, Converse sneakers, a Bon Jovi 1987 concert Tour t-shirt, and my leather jacket. I am already anticipating the concerned look she’s going to give me.

I sit at the white linen-clothed round table in the middle of the restaurant; she’s on her cell phone, no doubt shouting orders at someone. She hits the end button and places her phone on the table as she stands to greet me. As expected, she looks me up and down before hugging me like I’m made of glass and might break if she squeezes too tight.

“Still not eating,” are the first words out of her mouth before lifting a piece of my hair and wrinkling her nose. “Dahlia Girl, I’m taking you to see my hairdresser tomorrow, and I don’t want any lip from you. Your hair isn’t even blonde anymore.”

Glancing around the restaurant at all the people eating lunch, involved in their own conversations, I give her a mock smile. “So nice to see you too. How are you?”

I continue in a very high-pitched voice with, “Glad you could meet me for lunch.”

I resume my normal voice, rolling my eyes and admonishing, “Seriously, maybe you could start out with something like that Aerie before laying into me.” I try to keep a straight face but I can’t hold back the giggle that escapes my mouth, which sounds more like a snort.

I know she’s worried about me, but we have gone through this little exchange every time I meet her somewhere and really enough is enough. Last week she took me to get my nails done after having grabbed my hands and wincing at the dirt still stuck under my nails from gardening. In my defense, she called me last minute when I was weeding the flowerbed and I only had time for a quick shower. It’s not like I’m walking around dirty and unshowered for Christ sakes.