"What is grief, if not love persevering"

 

WINTER

Winter came early as if it sensed his loss. The bench where they once sat together, could only bear one now, it would never have space for another.

At first, he couldn’t bear to take that road, tears would burn at the back of his throat, and the thought of shedding them where anyone else could see would send him running the other way.

He was holding up, that’s what he told everyone, he was doing alright, he could make it for another week, he knew there was no point in mourning, not when everyone’s losses were graver than his, not when he was barely a ghost in their lives, he did not have the right to mourn, he agreed that he would allow himself to feel sad, it was, after all, a loss experienced, but he did not deserve to grieve. 

He took a day off, then two, to clear off his mind, of course. He was not drowning in sorrow, he was mildly inconvenienced. He also found it hard to get to work, the bench was in the way. He knew he could take another road, but it felt like a breach of some cosmic law to do that, like he would be doomed to a lifetime of unhappiness were he to change something so crucial about his existence.

Eventually, he had to take that road.

The first steps were the hardest, he was greeted by the old ladies that fed the pigeons, he pretended to take a call so they wouldn’t ask him about his companion, the bicycle man gave him a nod as he always did, then the man with the stroller, the one he always talked about with- the bench.

A man was sitting there, and a strong sense of deja vu set his chest aflame. how dare he, he thought, his fist tightened, he wanted to grip him and send him falling to the ground that would gladly embrace him instead of the bench that he now defiled. He quickened his pace, then slowed it once again when another joined the man on the bench, a certain familiarity between them, one he knew too much, so he walked away, accepting his defeat. 

SPRING

Spring was better. He found another road.

He visited more often than he did before, his parents were happy to see him, he knew he was not enough, but he will have to do, they didn’t speak about him, they took down his pictures, every trace of him was gone, that seemed unfair but he couldn’t argue, he felt like a stranger to their grief, but what do you tell a parent that buried their own son?

He was scared he was beginning to forget what he sounded like, his voice was a memory he couldn’t reach, he wished he had agreed to take those pictures, and film those videos he had loved so dearly, he wished it could’ve been different, he wished he was different.

One evening, he woke up feverish from a dream where he visited him, and he longed for a continuation of that dream, so he looked for the pictures they shared as children, he was confident they had one, so he searched, and searched, to no avail. It was not there, and if his parents had it, they would not be willing to share it, nor would he make them look for it, so he sat on the cold hard floor, and released an anguished sob, the first time he cried since it happened, he felt alone, and he was indeed alone.

He wanted to call his parents, to cry in his mother’s lap and remind her of what they lost, of the man he could’ve become, of the man he will never be, he selfishly wanted them to feel his pain, to tear their hearts open like they have been that first night, it was too early for him to feel anything back then, and now that he did, it was too late, the only people with matching scars were already healing.

The guilt was a knife to his throat. Their time together was cut short, but if he had been there through it all, if he had loved like he was loved, perhaps it would’ve been different, he read articles about his ailment to see if someone made a cure, he knew it was terrible of him to hope it didn’t happen, because why would others get to live when he didn’t.

He wondered how it could’ve been if he still had him. He knew the answer, it would’ve been the same, he would’ve reluctantly loved him and never shown it, and he would’ve sent his brother to his grave wondering if he was ever loved. 

SUMMER

Sorrow was a constant companion.

It became hard to exist, to be perceived. He flinched when he heard his brother’s name in public, and sometimes he turned around, hopeful, only to be reminded of the sick truth, that he was gone.

He often forgot that it happened, he would make plans that included him, and he would turn around ready to make a sarcastic comment then stop halfway through because no one is there to hear it. He despised people who told him his brother would always be with him, he only felt his painful absence.

He stumbled when people asked him if he had any siblings, he had one less, does he count him or does he not, he didn’t want to be pitied, but he didn’t want him to be forgotten.

He went with the latter.

AUTUMN

His bench was empty today.

He walked around it tentatively, not ready to sit just yet, he worried that if he did all the pain would come crashing down, he could already feel it brewing, waiting for him to let his guard down before the tears would swarm his eyes, and make him cry once more.

He sat down, it felt just as uncomfortable as ever. He wanted to cry, and he wanted to laugh, most of all, he wanted his brother. So he pulled out his phone and sent him a text like they always did before they met on their morning walks to work.

 “waiting for your brother?” the man with the stroller called, interrupting his train of thought, his beard looked scruffier than when he saw him last, and the child he held now was older.

“he’s not coming,” he sighed.

“I haven’t seen you two in a while,” 

“he died.”

“I see,” he said.

He expected to see pity drawn all over his face, that he would awkwardly apologize and go away, but the man sat next to him and placed his kid on his lap, he then turned towards him, “she lost her mom a year ago,” he supplied, a look of understanding plaguing his features, he wished this man didn’t know loss for he looked so kind, yet there wasn’t much he could do about it.

“My wife loved this place, I come here every day so my daughter could grow to love it too,”

“I should be taking this one home,” he announced after a while “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, a question or a promise, it didn’t matter since he didn’t stick around for an answer.

 

Lamyae Laaroui