Grief

            I suppose we’re friends, but I can’t say I like him much. We’ve spent most our lives together, like riding beside each other in a car for forty-five years. I sometimes forget he’s here, but then he coughs or shifts in his seat, and I remember. Looking over, I act surprised to see him, but he rolls his eyes and folds his arms knowing it’s a lie. “What, you thought I left?” he shrugs. “You’re stuck with me.”

            I’m tempted to look back at the road and press down on the gas pedal like I’ve done countless times before. Moving quickly helps me ignore him, but today I turn toward him and strike up a conversation. He seems surprised. I’ve tried ignoring him for so long.

            We speak about the moment we met, how my mom and I got off the elevator after dinner and saw that look on the nurse’s face. Something was wrong, and people were racing in and out of my father’s room. We recall how I stood in the hall watching the monitor of his heartbeat so I could be the one to tell Mom he died, and how I found her sitting on the floor of the waiting room with her back against the wall and hands over her face. She was crying, something I’d never seen before.

            I lower the window in hopes the memories, like smoke, will leave, but he continues - not about that night but all the nights and days since. He mentions our going back to college as if everything was alright when it wasn’t, our graduating and not having anyone to help find a job, or how to buy a suit. The pain makes me want to look away, but he seems determined to continue. “And remember how lost and unprepared you felt getting married? There was no one to talk to about what it means to be a husband, let alone a father.” I beg him to stop. “No wonder you ran to the church. No wonder you’ve made such a mess of things.”

            I tell him to shut up, but my words are useless. If I have any chance of moving on, I need to let him speak. He continues for what feels like hours until he falls asleep, exhausted from his relentless monologue.

“Finally,” I sigh, “peace!” But only until he awakens again.