September Twenty-Third.

Content Warning: This story contains themes of grief and loss. It includes references to death (unspecified cause), graves, headstones, and burial near cliffs. Reader discretion is advised.

Every month on the twenty-third, since September of two thousand-four, I think of this day.

I was cooking in my colorful, tile wall kitchen, making my best friend’s favorite meal. Minestrone. The smell was wafting through the air, into my nose and around my home. It smelled warm, it smelled like toasted onions, beans, veggies, and an odd feeling of melancholy comfort. The kind that can make you feel just a bit better, or more at peace and settled. He loves it so much. I make a point to cook it for him every month on the twenty-third and then bring it over to his house unannounced. It is always worth seeing the excitement on his face, like he is eight years old and it is Christmas morning. Once it was done cooking, my home smelled delicious. I left my red brick house halfway on the hill leading to the cliffs above the sea that my best friend loves so much and walked down the wet, rainy sidewalk to his house, three blocks south of mine. As I walked with the pot of stew in hand, the rain danced on my shoulders, creating beautiful songs every time they hit windows and the lid of my pot. ‘I love the rain so much’, I thought to myself, admiring the drops falling from the gloomy, dark, gray clouds overhead. Once I arrived in front of the tall, yellow sided house at the bottom of the hill, in the middle of the town, I knocked on his door, and as the door swung open I saw his face light up just as it always has. With that little yellow flower he always had tucked behind his ear, sparkling in a magical way, he looked just like he always does, full of life, love, joy, and kindness towards everyone. With his bright hazel eyes, his soft brown hair, and his awesome clothes, I think I will always remember how he looks. He invites me in to his cozy house and we share the stew at his kitchen counter on bar stools. As we look out the window, watching the rain fall gracefully down the glass, we tell each other everything that has happened since we last saw each other.

I’ve done this for six years in a row now. I started on his twentieth birthday, September twenty-third, two thousand-four.

Today is September twenty-third. His thirtieth birthday. He has been gone for four years now. Now I have a new tradition. I am standing in my kitchen, zoning out on the spot on the wall where stew has splashed for the past ten years right above the pot of stew simmering on the warm, gas stove in front of me as I remember all the times I have done this before, when I have made this exact same stew, in the exact same way, but with just one thing different. I knew I was going to see him when it was done. I miss him so much. It’s been four years but it still brings up old feelings whenever I think about it. Everything seems to reminds me of him. The flowers in the spring, the snow in the winter, the rain in the summer, the leaves in the fall, the random acts of kindness done by strangers, and so much more. The stew is done. I take it off the stove, put some in my thermos, and the rest in his. I walk up the wet, rainy sidewalk, the familiar 3 blocks from my house, but now north, to the cliff where his headstone lies. As I walk with the two containers of stew in my hands, the rain still danced on my shoulders, creating different rhythms, but now I hear them differently. Now they sound like the song of melancholy. The song of sadness, but also peace and reassurance. I look down, admiring the drops falling from the gray clouds overhead, painting the sidewalk a darker gray then it was when the sun shown. I walk past the houses, past the apartments with lit up windows, past the shops with people laughing inside, I walk straight through the cold raindrops that are falling on my head, Not even bothering to put my hood up or carry an umbrella. He never did. I walk all the way up to the grassy, cool cliffs where his headstone lies. He said he wanted his body buried right at the edge, so I made sure to make that happen for him. I look out over the ocean, and the birds, and boats, and imagine him, swimming in the sea with the whales, or flying overhead with the hawks. I think he would’ve liked that. I sit down on the grass beside his grave, placing his stew and a spoon beside his headstone, and just sit here as I eat my stew, soaking in this moment in time; feeling the wet grass beneath my legs and hands, admiring the speckled granite of his headstone, the delicate engravings of his name on the cold, wet, stone, watching the waves crash onto the rocks at the bottom of the cliffs, listening to the seagulls squawking overhead, and feeling the rain pitter-patter on my bare skin and clothes. Once I was done, I poured some of the stew from his thermos onto the grass near the large granite stone, hoping he will be able to taste it. As I get up to leave, a gust of wind suddenly rushes from out above the cliffs edge towards the land and into the town below the hill, blowing my shirt and hair around, and it makes me notice this one small, sparkling yellow flower that seems to have just appeared. I smiled to myself sweetly, with a touch of melancholy that always seems to come. “Hello,” I whispered to the wind. “Thanks for giving me a sign you are here.” I took one last look at the yellow flower, looked at his headstone, and then left. Until next month. Goodbye.