Second-hand Grief

It was a warm December afternoon. I picked them up from band practice. We laughed and sang as we went to their home. That morning, I joked about crying while I watched Finding Nemo. It was a weird day already.

You helped me with my bags, cheery and kind eyes welcomed me into your home. We spent the evening chatting innocently. You raved about your person, you could see it in your eyes. There was so much love there, in such little time.

We stood in the kitchen together. You began to worry; “no texts had come back yet.” I said that you shouldn’t think anything of it. “She’ll be okay.”

We were still in the kitchen; I see it so vividly in my mind. The moment you said, “She’s gone.”

I looked to my left, they looked at me. I will always remember that look. It’s so difficult to describe that look.

It was a look of second-hand grief.

We leant in to touch you, comfort you, but you scooted yourself away from us. I panicked and thought of the next thing I could think of. Pillow. Water. Company.

We sat by your side, I don’t remember how long for. It was so surreal, it all unfolded so quickly. I unfolded so quickly.

When your friends came over, they took you to a different room. I sat with them on the couch, I didn’t know what to say.

There’s so much that I wish I did. I should have stayed by their side, I should have been better to you, I should have been kinder to myself, I should have done more. But I didn’t.

I couldn’t sit still, no, I had to move. I went out onto the street, no shoes, I called someone and told them I loved them. I shouldn’t have. It should have been anyone else.

I came back into the house, almost like nothing happened. They were on the couch but left as soon as I sat down. I completely froze.

I shut down, while your world was ending. Torn between my own self-pity and complete overstimulation, nothing can make up for what I lacked at that moment.

I asked someone something that I shouldn’t have, thinking that it would make me feel better. It didn’t, it showed on my face and I paid for it later.

The next morning, your housemate offered me coffee, I said no, I don’t why. I love coffee. I asked you if I could hug you.

You felt tense, I felt small even though my arms were around you.

You helped me with my bags. God, I should have been the one to help YOU. I should have carried your bags too. You were so kind.

Was I just that selfish? At least that was what my mind was telling me.

I started my car, exhausted, I should have stopped, I should have stayed. Why didn’t I stay? You watched as I drove away.

I won’t forget your face, absolutely heartbroken and grieving. I wish I had done more for you. Why didn’t I do more for you? (When with this guilt end?)

What can I do? How do I put down the bags? Second-hand grief pulls me down, every time I see your house. I’m still carrying my bags. I can’t image the weight that yours holds.

I didn’t see you for about a month, you were so kind to me then, and you are still so kind to me now when I didn’t deserve it, when it would have been easier not to.

Over a year later now, I’ll try to make up for what I lacked then.

I hope you know how loved she was. I wish you could see your face when you talked about her. It was really special. I felt the weight of your love, as I naturally tend to do. It was different with you because something tells me that she never really left, that she’s still in the kitchen with us. The moment you found out, she covered you, protected you. She’s in your smile when you talk about her. She’s in the next love you find without her. She’s in the way you talk about that moment. She’s in the way your friends were there for you. She’s in the songs they write. She’s in the bags you carry. She’s the weight on your shoulders. She’s in these words. She’s in our second-hand grief.