Teabags
I lay on the couch of an apartment far too big for me, a cup of tea and a newspaper on top of the coffee table.
My bleary eyes barely register the rolled up newspaper, before filling with tears. I turn to the other side, facing the couch, and squeeze my eyes shut.
But it's too late.
The mind is cruel that way, always drifting, always searching, for the one thing you don't want to think of, managing to pinpoint and photograph the one thing you don't want to see.
In my case, it was the newspaper article; one in the very corner of the post, so small that it could barely be read beside the huge sports headline about an athlete breaking yet another world record.
My mind asks me, over and over again.
Is that it?
Is that all he's worth?
Is that all he left behind?
And of course, the answer is no.
Because he left me behind too.
It was a badly written article, sentences choppy and short, as if the writer was barely managing to huff and puff the words out.
He wouldn't have approved.
But what does that matter now?
I'd give everything to have him beside me, fuming at the article. But there is nothing I can give. Nothing that would match his value.
Every breath I breathe in hurts.
The entire apartment smells like the cheap kind of teabag you would find in a corner of the supermarket. Thinking back on it, that kind of smell always stuck to him.
The smell of teabags and blueberries.
He always claimed that a home without a box of blueberries in the fridge wasn't much of a home at all.
It was a strange thing to say, really.
But that was him: random and weird and spontaneous.
And I loved him.
I loved how he would clumsily tie his tie in the morning.
I loved how he would unconsciously snuggle into my side when he was asleep.
I loved his glasses and how he would fall asleep sometimes with them on.
I loved how passionate he was about his job, sometimes staying up until 3 in the morning to edit a manuscript, no matter how much the writer might ignore his edits.
It was ironic.
The man who worked from morning to morning to publish the legacies of people who never wanted to be forgotten would be forgotten himself, the only mark of him being a tiny article in a barely known newspaper, and this infernal infernal scent of tea and the rotting box of blueberries he left in the fridge.
It would be the first time he never finished a box of blueberries.
These days, I prefer sleeping over being awake.
Both sleeping and awake, his memory plagued my mind.
But when I was sleeping, I could forget. I could forget about that dreaded article on the coffee table, and everything could be normal again. He would come home and greet me, and he would sit down and steep his tea for just a little bit too long. I would make fun of him, and he would laugh, and that would be enough. I would be happy.
When I awoke, the realization would slam back into me, and the article would burn itself into my eyes.
I couldn't look at it, but I couldn't bring myself to throw it away either.
And so, I slept.
I would sleep, and everything would be okay again.
When I couldn't sleep anymore, I turned to the bottled orange sleep in my medicine cabinet.
One pill.
When that stopped working, two pills.
Four pills.
Eight pills.
White tablet after tablet rushed down my throat with lukewarm tea.
Today, I close my eyes and sigh in relief.
The article will be forgotten on the table.
I will never wake again.
My bleary eyes barely register the rolled up newspaper, before filling with tears. I turn to the other side, facing the couch, and squeeze my eyes shut.
But it's too late.
The mind is cruel that way, always drifting, always searching, for the one thing you don't want to think of, managing to pinpoint and photograph the one thing you don't want to see.
In my case, it was the newspaper article; one in the very corner of the post, so small that it could barely be read beside the huge sports headline about an athlete breaking yet another world record.
My mind asks me, over and over again.
Is that it?
Is that all he's worth?
Is that all he left behind?
And of course, the answer is no.
Because he left me behind too.
It was a badly written article, sentences choppy and short, as if the writer was barely managing to huff and puff the words out.
He wouldn't have approved.
But what does that matter now?
I'd give everything to have him beside me, fuming at the article. But there is nothing I can give. Nothing that would match his value.
Every breath I breathe in hurts.
The entire apartment smells like the cheap kind of teabag you would find in a corner of the supermarket. Thinking back on it, that kind of smell always stuck to him.
The smell of teabags and blueberries.
He always claimed that a home without a box of blueberries in the fridge wasn't much of a home at all.
It was a strange thing to say, really.
But that was him: random and weird and spontaneous.
And I loved him.
I loved how he would clumsily tie his tie in the morning.
I loved how he would unconsciously snuggle into my side when he was asleep.
I loved his glasses and how he would fall asleep sometimes with them on.
I loved how passionate he was about his job, sometimes staying up until 3 in the morning to edit a manuscript, no matter how much the writer might ignore his edits.
It was ironic.
The man who worked from morning to morning to publish the legacies of people who never wanted to be forgotten would be forgotten himself, the only mark of him being a tiny article in a barely known newspaper, and this infernal infernal scent of tea and the rotting box of blueberries he left in the fridge.
It would be the first time he never finished a box of blueberries.
These days, I prefer sleeping over being awake.
Both sleeping and awake, his memory plagued my mind.
But when I was sleeping, I could forget. I could forget about that dreaded article on the coffee table, and everything could be normal again. He would come home and greet me, and he would sit down and steep his tea for just a little bit too long. I would make fun of him, and he would laugh, and that would be enough. I would be happy.
When I awoke, the realization would slam back into me, and the article would burn itself into my eyes.
I couldn't look at it, but I couldn't bring myself to throw it away either.
And so, I slept.
I would sleep, and everything would be okay again.
When I couldn't sleep anymore, I turned to the bottled orange sleep in my medicine cabinet.
One pill.
When that stopped working, two pills.
Four pills.
Eight pills.
White tablet after tablet rushed down my throat with lukewarm tea.
Today, I close my eyes and sigh in relief.
The article will be forgotten on the table.
I will never wake again.
Comments
Post a Comment