grieving raze eleven years and change after we last met, i dream of your death. the aftermath, at least. a flurry of moles grew fangs, and now here you are. drained of all that made you move. i keep needing to leave the rented room they're going to use to talk about you. to change my clothes. or to try and find my glasses so i can see whatever's left of you, bald and bereft of life and pumped full of chemicals to keep your skin from turning blue. your funeral is just a slide show. pictures of all the people you loved, with no words to explain who they were or what they meant to you. i glue my eyes to the screen. wait to see my own face. it isn't there. i wish i had something you held to remember you by. something you slept with or wore or pressed against your face while you cried. all i have are emails. two hundred and twelve of them. not that you've really gone anywhere. even in the dream that killed you, you're still alive. sleep saves you from a fate worse than feeling anything real. and when you take me in your arms, you throw out your back. i know what it means. we were never meant to touch. 221104 ... nr is it true grieving if you never let yourself fully believe they're gone? 221105 ... kerry the person i have always been but didn't realize or admit until now and the things she could have done if i hadn't ignored her 221109 ... tender_square a job that has saved me three times over five years, a job that i know i won't be returning to again. 221110 ... kerry everyone does it differently. i am supposed to be (at least somewhat) skilled in helping others navigate their grief. but when i saw your texts about paco i didn't know what to do. holy shit. paco is dead. the day before, you heard monk's was closed for the rest of the evening and through tomorrow (as in today). you suspected something terrible happened. why else would a restaurant close so suddenly, in the middle of the day? we went to monk's together once, pretty soon after we started seeing each other. i was craving mussels and they have some of the best in the city. you said your buddy paco worked there, maybe we'd get lucky and see him. he was the first person you saw when we walked in. enormous, bearded, loud. all smiles. there were hugs. you introduced me. monk's is always packed, but paco told the hostess to seat us right away. "only the best for these two!" he said, booming, and rushed off. later he came by our table to chat for a moment. this was the only time i met paco. when i told you i have seizures you said you had a buddy who does too. his name is paco. the sticker on the fridge--you see that? the cartoon guy with the big teeth?--paco did that. there's another one in the bathroom. you told me paco has the big ones, that he bit through his tongue once. luckily, i don't know how or why, this has never happened to me. at worst i've had rugburn on my face, a scab from my glasses piercing the skin under my eye, scuffed boots i'd just bought. pissed my pants on the sidewalk. drooled on myself. that's still not as bad as biting off my own tongue. the other day you said god, i hope nothing happened to paco. because you know, the seizures. i said i guess we'd just have to wait. when you found out he died i had no idea what to do or say. i texted you. holy shit. do you want to talk? you called me immediately. turned out it was a seizure, he'd smacked his head. you said you were sad, your voice sounded like tin. but then you were angry, ranting about the world, what a fucked up world that something like this could happen to paco, and i was having trouble connecting the dots between capitalist hell and epilepsy, and i had to keep telling myself not to ask you to explain yourself and be logical, just let you rant. i said if it makes you feel better, he didn't suffer. they don't hurt. the seizures themselves, that is--the pain comes afterward. you called me after work last night, paco's ex-girlfriend had come into the bar and was following you around, trying to dump all her pain onto you, until you couldn't take it anymore. you clocked out and left. i imagined you walking briskly down the damp sidewalk, wearing all black, hopping the turnstile in the subway station. slouching against the tiled wall while you talk to me. i keep forgetting paco is dead, since i only met him that one time. it's your deflated manner, your distraction, your apathy that reminds me you are grieving. 230913 what's it to you? who go blather from