When I need it most, my brain goes quiet. In the ugly radio
silence and white noise, the ruined meat shudders and whimpers over all the
collective thoughts I should have, should have had while I had the chance. As
if I were suddenly rebooted into some safe mode without networking or the
capacity to connect to my drives, I curl up, cut off from all possible methods
of recovery.
Of course, I’m still talking and functioning. I still laugh
and think about other things, still call my boifriend and have full
conversations. But once I hit this trigger I shut down. I become useless. I
refuse to call my best friend back and talk about the memorial arrangements.
And then this sick, awful part of me wonders why this hit me
so much harder than my grandfather’s. Why is it my family's deaths are so
normal for me but my friends' tear me up inside? Is it all the broken promises?
Is it all the unfinished business? Is it that I know my family knows I love
them unconditionally but maybe my friends felt less than cherished, less than
cared for?
Because I don’t think he knew how much he meant to me. I don’t
think he knew everything he did for me or how he shaped my life or brightened
my day or saved my family. I don’t think he knew that he made such a huge
impact on us, or how much we all loved him. How his laugh could make all the
horrible things of the week run for the shadows, or how his crinkling eyes
always reminded me of the kindness and wisdom I imagined in Dumbledore’s.
When I was a freshman in high school I was teased and told I
didn’t belong in a certain group because I wasn’t smart enough. He was having trouble
with a case and asked us for help finding a defense. I don’t think he really
expected any help, but I piped up with a pretty solid way to get the warrant
thrown out. It was a totally “Legally Blonde” moment, and it boosted my
confidence by a million miles. He always had faith in me, even when I didn’t
have faith in myself.
I’m going to miss that.
