Love Death and Distraction
I'm taking inventory of things I've written and came across this essay I wrote several years ago for a class I took while working on my MFA. I've always liked this one and thought I should share it here.
I canāt make my mind slow down.
My sisterās latest attempt at rehab failed, and sheās on the run for violating her probation.
Dad turns and walks away when anyone mentions her name. Mom cries and plans meetings with her fugitive daughter in secret. Mom plans to take her medication that might save her life if she overdoses.
My sister will not show up. She never does.
Itās lunch. I read a text from my dad. Itās about his sister, not mine. Sheās sick, in the hospital.
Maybe Iāll go so see her this weekend. Probably not. I have an impossible number of things to do.
For example, Iām supposed to be building yet another web app. It will save the company I work for a few thousand dollars a year. I will continue being paid twenty percent below the market average.
When I make myself work, I feel better. When I finish things, I feel better. Instead, I scroll social media, which also makes me feel better, for now.
An hour from now there will be so little time left in the day that Iāll give up getting anything done. Good luck tomorrowās me.
Once upon a time, I was happy to come home. I looked forward to unwinding, watching a show or playing a game. Now, Iāve sworn it off. I removed the televisions from my living room and bedroom so that I wouldnāt waste entire days trapped in the algorithmic webs the apps weave.
When I get home now, all I want to do is sleep. On a good day, I fight the urge and do my homework or work on my writing. Lately the good days are over 50%. Thatās progress.
Writing is the only thing I want to do. When I sit down to work on a story, my phone skitters toward my hand. My mom wants to know if I have any of my sisterās mail. Sheās going to see her Friday.
Itās Wednesday and I havenāt shopped for groceries this week. I canāt even think of what I have to cook for dinner. I stop to put in a grocery order to pickup tomorrow.
JV track practice is going to be over in five minutes. Itās a fifteen minute drive to my daughterās school. All I can do is send her a message to let her know Iāll be late.
Like we were late this morning because I couldnāt get out of bed to get her there on time.
When I get home, Iām angry. At who? I donāt know. Maybe the world, maybe myself.
My daughter wants to chat. Her ADHD has the best of her today. Sheās talking faster than I can keep up. I wonder if she took her Adderall.
Which reminds me there are prescriptions that need to be picked up at the pharmacy and my wife is working over because someone didnāt show up for their shift.
On the way to the pharmacy, one of my writer friends calls. He wants to know if Iāve finished the edits on his latest story. He reminds me I owe him.
My daughter wants some god-awful sugary beverage with more calories than our dinner.
My mom beeps in and I send her to voicemail.
My wife sends me a meme so that I know how miserable she is.
The pharmacist wants to know if my daughter has had this medication before. I canāt remember.
Audiobooks are one of my guilty pleasures. I put one on in the car on the way home. As the narrator drones on, I get to feeling guilty for not working on my story. As soon as I get homeā¦
The narrator cuts off and my phone rings through the carās speakers. I punch the green phone button on my steering wheel and say, āHello.ā
āHey son. Got some bad news. Your aunt is dead.ā My dad canāt go on. He is choking back tears, which is a situation our relationship isnāt equipped to handle, so we hung up. In the forty years Iāve known my father, Iāve only seen him cry one other time.
This is the part where Iām supposed to talk about the summer that I spent with her. The way we woke up at dawn and fed chickens. How supportive and kind she was. How much she meant to me.
I would if any of it was true. My sister was the one she loved.
None of that matters. It certainly doesnāt stop me from feeling cheated. One day sheās sick and the next sheās dead. The message that she was going to the hospital barely made a dent in my consciousness.
When the weekend came, the message would have resurfaced. Iād have thought about it long enough to come up with an excuse not to go. Didnāt I deserve the chance to decide not to see her?
I plead dead aunt to escape work and social engagements. My mom, dad, and I ride together for the forgettable funeral. My sister doesnāt show. So much for the favorite.
We get in line behind the hearse and drive to the burial site.
The pastor is a great actor, reciting his lines with energy for the benefit of the bereaved. He spoke of my auntās life, how she lived in dedication to her family, community, and church. He spoke of God waiting until this moment, at the graveside, to take her immortal soul to heaven.
I put aside my religious doubts and let my mind wander.
We parked at the top of a hill overlooking the cemetery. There were lines of cars stretching as far as I could see in every direction. People that were part of the weave of my auntās life formed long, tight lines back to their cars, enduring the chill, traffic, and family feuds for this brief goodbye. The final pattern. Her lifeās work stretched out on display for her to see before God leads her away.
What would I see if God showed me my lifeās work? What good had I done? What about me deserved to be remembered?
The nearest gravestone to the car has the name Sarah Sanders etched into it, which is perfect for the unnamed character in my story. I text it to my writer friend so he can remind me when we meet up to go over the edits.
I text a meme to my wife, so she knows the funeral is over. She responds in kind and before I know it, my dad is pulling into a truck stop in the middle of nowhere. I follow him in and buy some burned coffee tastes like itās been itās been sitting since breakfast.
The school calls. My daughterās sick and I need to pick her up ASAP. I reschedule the plans to have lunch with my parents.
Work calls. There is an emergency that nobody else knows how to fix. Soon Iām in my home office, working remotely to restore a service that only matters to four people while my daughter naps. Those four people feel important enough to call me while Iām off for a funeral.
My wife comes home to find me working. I suggest we take a vacation this summer. She points out that I say that every year and we never do. Still, I want to think about taking a vacation with her.
I shut off my phone, lock the door to my office, put on headphones, and start writing. The words flow. I know that Iāll write every day now. That I will take that vacation. I can pick up the strands of my life and build something beautiful too, as long as I take the time to do it.
My phone buzzes and I stop writing mid-sentence to answer it. My writer friend is calling to remind me about Sarah Sanders, and we get wrapped up talking about the edits to his memoir. When I get off the phone, Iām too tired to do anything. I guess Iāll have to pick up those strands tomorrow.