Post Script

Andrey Zvyagintsev-b8dc7970

Mum is flitting about again, washing and cooking and cleaning and cleaning again. The house smells like a bakery, and not a hair is out of place. Well, except maybe my room. Hehe. It’s one place she has left untouched, although, the way her brows are knitted together, not for much longer. Then, there are moments she stops, heaving, and although she’s sweating profusely, I can tell tears are mixed in all the wetness on her face. And then our eyes meet and dart away just as quickly. Carrying the pain in our hearts is difficult enough. Seeing that pain in each other’s eyes, in all its insidious glory, is too much to bear. 

She cleans your room too, you know. You’ve been gone 570 days, but she still cleans your room, on days when she tries to stay so busy she doesn’t have to think about you or anything else. I don’t know if it works for her. It didn’t for Dad. Do you know? Well, you’ve been in heaven a while, so you probably saw. He kept so busy at the garage until he went for a drive one day and never returned. His car was found wrapped around a tree a few days later. Maybe the four-wheeler felt as much pain as Dad did and wanted a bone-crushing hug from the tree. Is he there with you? He wasn’t perfect, but I hope he is. Losing you should have been enough penance.  

What’s it like there? Are there really many mansions? Do you have a salon there? I remember how full your hair was, how you obsessed over hair products. Are all the angels really winged creatures? Do they speak our language or did you have to learn the language of the heavens when you got there? Do they have your beloved onion chips there? Have you seen God?? Is he he? What of Mary? And Peter? Does he really stand at the gate? Oh, so many questions! 

Did you suffer? I hope the very end came as soon as your fate was decided by that trigger and not a second later. I keep going back to that day, to the protest that had our blood pumping and the bullet that should have been mine. The death that should have been mine. “Timi, run!” was all you said. And I ran. I shouldn’t have run for too long without looking back. I ran and ran away from you. Life too ran away from you, and your body lay there until the ringing in my ear stopped and the darkness lifted. But it’s remained dark here, my love, dark in the home you left, dark in our hearts. 

I’m only still here because of you. Ironical, because I also want to leave here because of you, or a lack thereof. I’m here because I know you would scold me if I dared leave as Dad did. Even if I were in hell, you would talk God into allowing you to cross the chasm for a moment just so you could bite my head off for leaving Mum all alone. So, I try a little bit more, just a little, to not make her feel so alone. We ate out at that restaurant you loved, Matti’s, and yes, their chicken soup was to die for. Perhaps we’ll make it a weekly thing. 

I hate endings, so until next time. 

I love you. So much. 

I should have told you that more often. 

I should have.

 


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