triggers

I think a lot about triggers.

This morning, I blew my nose in the bathroom at work, and the toilet paper smelled of Derek’s hospital room. Instead of exhaling the junk within me, I found myself sniffing at the thin sheets with closed eyes and imagining that he was next to me under the whirring lights of the bathroom.

At the printer, I caught a whiff of his cologne, and spun full-circle into a confused panic of not knowing where I was.

On the sidewalk, I saw a motorized wheelchair in the distance; the person’s back was towards me, and I was tempted to call out and see if it was him.

As I lit the evening’s cigarette, I thought about the first time I smoked in front of my family—it was the day that he died, and it was as if he hadn’t because despite the utter heartbreak of the morning, the main thought was, “who is this girl?” and “don’t let grandpap find out” and “when did this even start?”

At an antique shop down the street, I found an old street sign for “Olive Way” and thought of the movie we watched together and how “Olive Juice” was the only way to say “I love you”.

A friend was leaving my apartment and saw the picture of us in the entryway. “That’s a cute picture of your cousin,” he said, and that was enough. Enough to make me catch my breath, enough to make me close my eyes and think of the photo, taken on his fifteenth birthday, the seventh to last, and we didn’t even know; enough to make the deep within me sink only into him; enough for the friend to ask, “What’s wrong”; enough for me to say, “I just wish you wouldn’t have said that.”

Because the truth is, we have such a damned good time, but when I realize he is out of reach, I cannot remember how I thought that any time was good but then. I cannot remember how I got to feeling happy again. I cannot remember if I was happier then.

And the guilt sinks into me, saying, “You let this happen” and “You should have done more” and “How dare you even try, try to move forward, try to feel joy, try to forget”.

But I can’t forget because even in the quietest of days, I can hear the windchimes. I can hear his voice saying “Nat” saying “olive juice” saying “don’t leave me tonight” saying “lie next to me” saying “hold my hand” but never once saying “I’m scared”.