I was digging under the bed, searching for pictures of my deceased parents during my last visit to my childhood home before it got sold, when I found it. A diary covered with neon Lisa Frank stickers of unicorns and ice cream cones. A little yellow lock dangled from the edge, securing the pages together, but it was flimsy. I could snap it right open. And I did.
When I looked at the twenty-year old family portrait, one of my mom and dad and me, I saw an extra face hovering in between my parents. A face that didn’t belong there.
I checked Twitter. The top hashtag was something about unexplained deaths. There were links to obscure websites detailing the different murders, mostly blogs with fonts that were a little too bright and mice that spouted glitter as you moved down the page.
As I sat in the hospital room, Tara was lying in the bed, tubes in her arm and my heart was breaking. The strongest person I knew gave up on herself and I could only wonder what I could have done better.
In my head I can hear my parents, my grandparents, and all my aunts and uncles in some heavenly choir, coming at me from all directions. If you can’t say anything nice…
I hope that there will always be an us. In every world, in every story.
There were moments in life
that deep in my soul,
I knew something was going to radically change
the path I was bound to take
and I wanted those moments etched into my skin.
Each new day is an opportunity to write a new story; a blank page to start over and begin writing a new chapter. You have pages to fill with your own words. You have sentences to live by and characters to support your story.
This duality cop thing was never a problem for him. He had plenty of “iffy” opportunities, but he did not succumb to temptation.
If you check, the night of the 10th was not a full moon, so what took place that evening can only be considered either an accident of chemistry or divine magic.