Exploration

Using a first person narrator discuss personal loss by directly addressing the 
part of the body where the loss occurs, using a wry and wistful tone.

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	Somehow, yesterday, my first day home in a month, you sat on the bed 
next to me when I got up in the morning.  You had never been next to me before.
It was odd, I looked over and there you were, the proverbial shadow of my 
former self. I knew no one else could see you, there was no one else around.  
And when I looked back at myself, I felt empty.

	Outside, the early birds sang at the feeders, the leafless trees 
shivered and squeaked in the wind.  But inside, there was me – and you.  We 
walked into the kitchen and made coffee.  It was a simple task for four hands. 
When hot, the handle of the pot was grasped by two rights.  We sat together at 
the table and stared at the coffee, the Luna bar and the pills.  Both of us 
wanting the first two and loathing the last.

	We sipped at the same time, from the same cup.  Nibbled from the Luna 
bar while glancing shyly at each other and away from the pills.

	Finally, I said, “She said it’s your fault, you know.  That it was you 
that made me swallow the pills.  That it was you that made me drive off the 
road.  Remember?  The doctor said that.”

	You shook your head.  “She’s wrong.”

	“But I didn’t even know you were there.”

	“I wasn’t.  I’m just a part of you.  The part that lets the sunrise 
lick the inside of your eyes with orange.  The part that lets you touch the 
power of the earth and bring it through your hands, your body, your eyes and 
your mouth, to shoot into the heavens in a column of light and sparks.  The 
part that lets you dive into the rose in your hands and feel the velvet petals 
and the fragrance envelop you when you slide in.  I am your magic.”

	“You will miss me,” you said.

	I stared at you and you stared back.

	“I don’t want to go back to the hospital.”

	“Neither do I”

	We both picked up the pills and the coffee and cried as we swallowed 
together. Slowly you faded away.

	I walked into the bedroom alone and watched the sunrise.  I reached for 
the lick of color, the rush of ecstacy, the orchestra with the crash of 
cymbals.  But…

	So this morning, my friend of 45 years, you were there.  Smaller, 
quieter, but there.  And …

	I took the pills and we mourned your loss.