One Last Thing ✅

twenty-two things

Mr. Mason and Grams are standing in the reception area, waiting for me. Grams is holding the plastic bag with my stupid pack of gum. Mr. Mason has a pleased expression on his face. "Told you I'd get you out of here in no time."

"Thanks," I tell him as Grams slips her arm around me.

With Mr. Mason's help, Grams loads me into her car, helping me so I won't jostle my left arm, which is tucked close to my chest in a sling. As for the rest of me, I emerged from the accident pretty much unscathed besides a few bumps and bruises. I close my eyes and lean my head against the window, not wanting to watch the familiar streets roll by, not wanting to admit that my whole world has shifted. It's like everything is slightly unreal now, tilted just a bit to the side, a little off color. Hard to put my finger on.

Grams parks the car in the garage and leads me into the house, carrying a duffel bag with my toothbrush and clothes. She eases me onto the couch before vanishing into the kitchen. I listen to myself breathe. Think about the fact that my slow intake and output of air nearly came to end, and the idea is not all that upsetting to me.

I look around the room. It looks just as I remember it, but it's different somehow. Everything is in its place—my grandmother's basket of library books in the living room next to the couch, the faded pictures on the walls, the huge decorative lamp that I bumped into when I was three years old and shattered into a million pieces. Grams was determined to glue it back together. 

And she did.

Yep, everything looks exactly the same.

But it feels different.

Or maybe it's me—could it be that I see everything differently now?

I take inventory of the pictures on the wall. There's me in kindergarten, with little blond pigtails. Another one of me at eighth grade graduation, wearing purple tights. One of my grandfather before he passed away. I let my gaze linger on the last one, a framed photo of my mother and me when I was only a few days old. In the picture, she gazes down at me with such love in her eyes.

I wonder, as I have so many times, what happened to that love.

Grams clatters around in the kitchen, making dinner. The sound is so familiar. I close my eyes, try to pretend this is a normal night. The spicy smell of taco meat drifts into the room, bites at my nostrils. My mouth waters, and I feel almost guilty about it. It seems wrong to look forward to food when Mrs. Edwards will never enjoy a meal with her family again.

Because of me.

I turn on the television. It's some old sitcom with a talking horse. I stare at the screen without seeing, let the theme song wash over me.

Not thinking.

Not feeling.

Not letting myself feel.