Finding Eden

01

There was a hideous splotch of pale purple that marred the base of my dad's neck and the same hue of mauve on the side of my mom's right wrist. It was as if death had painted them from one palette, unceasing when he got to the other parent, without washing off his paint. Their head and chests were visible but their bodies were closed off to the attendees. They laid with their wrists crossed over one another, the utter pretence of peace in their pose.

I thought that the display of them altogether was a bad idea.

Maybe it was the way my hands quavered when I reached to readjust the carnations near my mom's head, the pervasive thought that she would somehow snap her head to the side and bite my numb fingers.

With bated breath, I excused myself from the service and headed out back.

It came as no surprise when my eyes glazed over the thick blanket of snow suffocating the cemetery lot. What did come as a surprise was the set of footprints leading out to the back. The little twitch in my leg propelled me forward, curiosity stemming from my limbs and to explore it, dare I catch a stray relative taking a smoke out back.

My relatives came in flocks, the day they heard the news, carrying flowers and umbrellas but they didn't hold any semblance of my grief.

The footsteps had been covered over, and my funeral flats stamped out new ones as I found a picture perfect scene before me. My breath latched in my cracked throat as I saw the only other dug-up grave plot in the area and a lone boy standing next to it. His funeral director must have just left and he held a notebook in his hand. I stood, transfixed, as I stared at the contra before me.

He was comprised of clashing opposites; a boy that looked like an angel but went through hell, dark hair against snowflakes and pale skin. He didn't make any effort to brush it off of his head or his gray scarf and I almost wanted to shake him before he froze under the weather. We stood there, strangers that shared the same heaviness in our cold bones, for what seemed like eternity, before his head snapped up and his icy stare fixated onto me. His red lips turned into a frown and his brows furrowed so I quickly turned away.

It left my heart drumming within my ribcage, my lungs needing prompting to take in deep breaths. I was so familiar with the boy's stance during our brief encounter, the slope of his back and the seeming melancholy way he held himself. It was uncanny and unsettling because we breathed the same thick air of loss.

While I should have known better than to look at the sun, where my eyes would scorch, it left my fingers wanting more thread to pull until I was orchestrating the entire story of his life. I shook this thought out of my head, where it landed in the pit of my stomach and burned a hole there. It was too invasive, too uncharacteristic.

"Eden! We're doing the eulogy now," my aunt exclaimed upon sight and ushered me back to the funeral home.

***

After two hours of graveside service and two days of fussing, I was settled into the townhouse. The kitchen island was crammed with containers of casserole and littered with letters and flowers. Why were casseroles the perfect comfort food? I fumbled over it as I sat with a steaming plate in front of me and stared at the pile of black umbrellas balanced haphazardly near the coat stand.

There was a reason why I chose the townhouse, and it was because the third floor held a dance studio and the garage held my dance material.

Ballet was a passion, I would say. On some days, I could argue that it wasn't because nothing presented more danger to my feet than dolling up on pointes and lacing strings around my ankles until I was as practiced with it as brushing my teeth.

After my brief lunch, I gathered myself and my box of shoes from the garage, staring stonily as the door crept upwards with a creek. It didn't take long to break into the house, like it didn't take long for me to break into my shoes. The air was purer in the studio, refined and unadulterated as I toiled the day's memories away on the surface of the vinyl floor. Arms bend to form wings and legs break to join lines.

An unfamiliar ring drew me out of my fouttés and I stumbled upon the realization that the garage door was still open. I hastily tore off the shoes and grabbed a coat to run outside and sweep off the snow that had gotten into the garage and shut the automated door.

It wasn't until I was making my way back that I heard noise from my supposed neighbor.

"Shit!"

The exclamation brought the flight of a few birds and my eyelids twitched as I peered up.

After the flock disappeared, a symphony of clamor was orchestrated. A window slammed shut (bang!) and a door swinging open (crack!) as it bounced off the sides. A small, flightless cigarette also tumbled from the shut window. Not a moment later, a dark figure emerged from the door, guitar case on back, who struggled to lock door, muttering another profanity as he failed to do so. The other reaction for his inability to complete his action was to throw the keys in a disorderly fashion into the flower pot that was sat near the entrance. He then ran off, trying to hail a cab in the intersection of our street.

It mustn't have happened in more than a second or two and all the while, I was stunned into inaction, staring at the soggy remnants of the cigarette he was smoking. That was all before I raced back to my home to watch the chicken casserole lunch I had come tumbling out of my mouth.