When things get bad, I find myself thinking of the two roads that diverged in a yellow wood. Of pivotal turning points, and defining moments, and the fork at which lies the road not taken. Inevitably, invariably, I will return here, shovel in hand, ready to go grave digging once again.
The earth is soft here in my garden of tombstones. It is almost begging to be disturbed. I take my time in selecting which one should be exhumed today, slowly running my fingers across each weather-worn marker in this sprawling necropolis of my mind. I am spoiled for choice, after all. There is much to pick from in this lovingly curated collection of my grief.
Perhaps I’ll start recent, weave my way through rows of neatly ordered monoliths until I’m standing at the edge of a bittersweet season of 21sts, the denouement of a now-closed chapter of my young adulthood. It is a covetable bildungsroman story of self discovery and friendship and growth. It is filled with an ensemble cast of characters no longer in my life, of whom I only have memories left of.
I sink my spade into the soil and unearth the scent of salt water and candlelit dnms and cheap vodka and expensive coffee with 50 second microwave-warmed milk. Suddenly, I am once again in the din of your 21st party. Transported to a small warehouse space dimly lit with fairy lights and the warmth of your closest one hundred friends.
In our timeline, I had looked around and wondered if you’d even spoken more than three sentences to half of the people in the room. In this one, I am too nervous to form conscious thought. Cheeks warm from a shot for courage and fingers preoccupied with periodically folding and unfolding a sheet of paper from my clutch, I know it’s coming but my heart still leaps into my throat when you draw the crowd’s attention for speeches with a tap on the microphone.
In my memory, they were a sweet, unending slew of sentimentality that I watched bittersweetly from within the heart of the crowd. Here, I am barely able to process the jokes and endearing anecdotes, too focused on silently practicing the well-rehearsed speech ironed into my memory as I wait my turn.
I probably miss my cue when you call me up. Perhaps my closer friends will laugh encouragingly from within the crowd and cheer me on as I walk forwards unsurely to address your guests. I know the words by heart, but nervous habit will have me glancing down to the paper between my hands as I deliver them anyway. It’s a speech undeserving of any award, but it’s genuine and heartfelt. Later, people I barely know will laugh, not unkindly, about my shaking hands and the nervous tremor in my voice.
There are jokes I wanted to include but ultimately axed out of fear of them falling flat and landing in a room of devastating awkward silence. I tell them to you after, though, from the comfort of your bedroom floor, and you’ll laugh and lament that I should have included them anyway. In any case, it was a good speech, you’ll reassure me, even though it was likely mediocre at best. We fall asleep late into the nights with our hearts full and eyelids drooping. I wrap myself tight in borrowed covers and the warmth of your company before being pulled under. A final thought takes form before I sink into slumber: a fleeting recognition that I know I will miss this moment when I look at back at it in the future.
I’m filled with yearning when I wake, crouched above this freshly overturned grave. I exhale the lingering scent of summer from my lungs and shift to systematically rebury its corpse. The motions are smooth, practiced; it is evident that this is not the first time that the dead have been disturbed. To think that it won’t happen again in the future would be naively optimistic. For now, sated, I’ll take my leave. I do not look back as I go for I know that my cemetery of what ifs will be here when I next decide to visit.
in my defence I have none / for digging up the grave another time - the 1, taylor swift
You can also find this piece on my substack :) More to come soon <3
