Continuation of Claire Vaye Watkins' "The Last Thing We Need"
After I returned from my trip with Layla, I put your things into an old trunk that formerly held an assortment of uniquely patterned ties and set it away in the attic. I sat there for a while, surrounded by abandoned projects, dust, and the gentle hum of the water heater. As I left there was a sort of hollowness in my chest, but I knew it was for the best. I didn't plan on retrieving the trunk anytime soon.
As May rolled around, and the snow started to melt, I had moved on. I had given up on the mystery of your life, on finding out who you really were. Rather than dwelling on your experiences, I made my own. Even if I felt the familiar pull to the trunk, to dig through its contents and analyze letter by letter, I never did. But that has changed.
I found your grave today. It was my aunt's funeral, and as I was leading my family back to the car, and there you were. Despite the summer air being hot and humid, I felt myself go cold. I paused for only a moment, before my wife tugged my suit sleeve to signal me to keep moving.
I’m not sure what I was expecting. I thought if I were to find you, I would surely find myself, but the only thing I have met is unease. I suppose I know who you are now- or rather who you were. “Beloved son and father”. I know that you were only 38, that I was only two years your senior. I know that you too had a little girl. Abigail. Maybe in another life she and my daughters had tea parties and sword fights with pool noodles, maybe in another life Abigail lived past five.
Your headstone is granite. There is a wilting poppy next to it, its yellow color fading with age. Maybe M left it. Maybe she cried at the foot of the stone slab, begging for you to come home. Begging for her love and for her little girl.
I found your obituary. The grief of losing your daughter killed you, not the pills you swallowed to feel better. They said they didn't know if it was an accident or intentional, that you left no note. Most name brand antidepressants take weeks or even months of regular consumption to kick in, and you overdosed trying to speed up the process.
Today I opened the box. I didn't move it, didn't even unpack it. But I sat with it, quietly. I didn't cry. How do you grieve someone you don't truly know? Someone you never met? How do you mourn a daughter and a life that is not yours?
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