Indiana was unexpected that night; it wasn’t at all what I had planned.
So it is fair to say that I was unprepared.
Truth is, I was already at the bar when that text hit my phone. A familiar dive, comforting in its lack of complexity. A place where mostly empty bottles help to fill up even emptier Old Town people. Where the lights flicker randomly. And there is always the underlying vibe that things are just one minor party foul away from a major shuffle. A familiar tension, reminding me of family.
But at least they finally repaired the back door. The one recently battered in and then boarded back up. And that simple restoration made it easier slipping out for smokes between the pours. Probably because of the navigational transparency it provided to pickled brains.
Three rounds and a sound when a phone, habitually placed face down, lit back up.
Initially, I ignored the intrusion. The self-loathing was flowing stronger than the Jameson; I wasn’t really in the mood for interruption. But intuition nudged me to temporarily put aside plans for the intended bender and check the screen I have come to loathe.
It was her.
The beginning flush of an inebriated nothingness evaporated calling for the check. Adrenaline is a hell of a drug; the nature of our mother prepared us well. At least in terms of preserving survival skills. Even when aging veins are struggling to pump through the self-infused sludge.
Half a tank on the gauge; a little more than half a pack in a pocket. Not the usual level of road preparedness I prefer. But that night, it would have to do. I would just have to make things stretch. Because I had to get on the road; I had to get to her.
So it was back to that familiar line scratching south. The miles getting under my skin. Slogging through traffic that couldn’t fucking decide if it was merging or yielding.
Eventually punching across the border. Punishing myself for having been so distant and distracted as of late, consumed as I was with the battles against uncooperative tin and the participation in a major typewriter event.
But those were just excuses. And my heart fucking knew that. My brain was just attempting to lie a way into unaccountability.
Her street was fairly full. But my usual spot was open. So I slipped in as quietly as I could, not wanting to bring myself to the attention of any snoopy neighborhood lookie-loos.
It irritated me enormously that the gate squeaked when I opened it. I could have sworn I had finally fixed that fucker. The compulsive part of my brain wanted to immediately launch into repair mode. Because I find it intolerable when inanimate objects get the better of me. Which honestly happens with shocking regularity. Just ask all the people who have witnessed me super gluing myself to things.
Leaving a cantankerous gate behind me with a mental “fix it later” post-it attached, I stood smiling at the back stoop of her deck. That spot where months ago we talked and laughed and smoked together. And the warmth of that memory felt uncharacteristically tender.
The door was locked when I tried the handle. But having been given permission to use the spare key, I immediately began hunting in the yard for the comical bit of plastic fashioned to resemble dog poop. And at that moment, I was thankful that she didn’t actually own a dog—it could have gotten messy.
The key retrieved, I knocked softly and then let myself into the kitchen.
It smelled like her perfume.
Up on the wall, the clock ticked off the time. But I noticed that it hadn’t yet been sprung forward. So maybe we could somehow benefit from still having that precious extra hour.
I called out and received no response. So I hesitantly began venturing in to find her.
She was on the couch in a darkened living room. Curled up under her favourite purple velour blanket. Music played soft from Bluetooth and I found myself recognizing the mix. Because it was the last one I had sent to her.
At her feet, her derpy cat stood guard. And glared at me accusingly when I walked into the room, offended that I had interrupted “muffin making time.”
On some other night, of some other day, the scene in front of me would have radiated comfort. A gentle tranquility earned after the toils of yet another Indiana day spent chasing art
Everything seemed peaceful.
Everything except for that bottle of pills spilling out.
It was obviously too late for any sort of heroics; the damage was already done. Maybe she appreciated that song more than I ever could have realized. And I immediately regretted ever having fucking sent it.
Stunned, I sat beside her on the floor.
In my hand, I held hers. The one already pale. And forever still. The one stained from the inks and paints laying open on the kitchen table—the last art she will ever make.
With my other hand, the one trembling from the enormity of loss, I gently brushed the hair back behind her ear. And told her that I loved her. The way I should have, that night on that fucking bridge.
She had chased an early transformation back into the stuff from which the stars are born. And given the circumstances, I couldn’t fault her for making that choice.
Because even though she went to a place from which she will never return, it was on her terms.
And that is significant.
On the end table, under the hilariously gaudy lamp purchased in a moment of thrift store madness—I still remembering how we laughed when she told me that story—sat an envelope. One with my name typed on the front—I guess she had been using that little typer I had gifted her after all.
The image of her typing out her last words filled me with a unique sense of melancholy. One foreign to me. One strong enough that I fear it will attach itself to me permanently.
I didn’t read it then; I am not sure that I am strong enough to read it now. So it sits, unopened, inside the case of my favorite machine.
Because I am not yet ready for that goodbye. And I am not sure I will ever see typewriters the same way again. Things are just…different now.
There was no indication of any other notes. Even in her expiration, I still respected her privacy. And used my phone to make the call. Hers I left untouched. Playing the music. Because had I found myself surrounded in the silence alone with her, there was a very real possibility that I would have followed in the flight of my favourite Raven.
The one now flying forever free.
I tenderly kissed her forehead. Tucked the edges of the blanket more closely around her in a failed attempt to keep her warm.
And with me.
But it wasn’t long before the quiet was pierced with noise. And the intrusiveness of spinning lights. The ones too often illuminating the tragedy of someone’s worst day. Easily triggered lookie-loos watched the unexpected neighborhood drama from their windows.
Questions. Explanations. Notes and contact information. Not the only things taken from me that beautiful and awful night. But they were all that I had left to give.
Released back into the wild, this fox had no choice but to run north. His tail between his legs; his heart broken in a manner that can never be repaired. My only companion, the reddened eyes reflecting back the rearview of our experience together.
I stuttered back into the welcoming abuse of a broken capitol’s rotunda—with no real recollection of the drive.
I just remember that Michigan never felt so fucking empty.
I honestly thought there would be more pages; I thought that we would have more time.
I never anticipated an early end to our story. In fact, there are things still on their way to her box, caught in transit. But the words and silly art have somehow lost all their meaning, with no joyful recipient there to receive them.
Fly high, baby. Kiss the infiniteness of the same stars under which we once sat and laughed together. And rejoice in the embrace of all the old gods no one bothers to mention anymore.
I will be looking for the signs of your presence come the summer.
Because I know you will be there.
This fox will be eternally stunted without the tender influence of his favourite Raven. But I will tirelessly gekker in the wilderness of this abandonment the significance of your memory. And champion the cause of your gentle illumination, high amongst the heavens where you now burn.
In these things, I will do my feral best to make you proud.
I promise.
So rest easy now, my sweet soaring Raven. You fought one hell of a fight; you wrote one hell of a story. And I treasure beyond measure the remarkable gift that was your influence.
My world will never be the same without you.
But this broken, vagabond fox will forever love you still.
Until the wheels all fall off, baby…
