Boulder

There is a rock in my living room. 

It's more of a boulder, really. It's large and cumbersome, rough in some spots and smooth in others. It’s a steel grey color, with flecks of black like freckles on summer worn skin. The rock is cold most of the time, but it warms when I rest my hand on it or lean against its side. 

Sometimes, it pulls warmth from me. Saps it away like a mosquito taking blood. In those moments, I become the cold one. Shivering so badly that I can’t hold a cup of water without it splashing on the ground. I forget that I can get up in those moments. I forget that I can walk away from the ice cold boulder.

I first noticed this rock when I stubbed my toe on it late one night. It had been about two weeks since you left and I wasn’t sleeping well without you by my side. It wasn’t too big then, about the size of a paperweight, but it was ridiculously heavy and impossible to move. I shifted my coffee table over it and quickly forgot about it. 

After a few months, it grew large enough to raise my table off its legs. Still, I tried to ignore it. 

My life wasn’t encumbered by the rock at first. At least, I didn’t let it affect me. I’m sure people noticed it when they came over. Any drink a guest would set on my coffee table would slide right off, clattering to the floor and staining my tan rug. 

Everyone would jump up; rush to the kitchen, the cupboard, the bathroom. Towels big and small would cover the spill, soaking up the mess and trying to make things right again. Looking back, the spilled drinks weren’t the issue. The tilted table was the problem. The rock growing underneath it was the cause. But no one, not even me, said anything about it. We talked around it, bumped into it sometimes, but never actually spoke about it. It was… taboo. Something that we all knew existed but never wanted to admit seeing. Never wanted to acknowledge and bring down the mood in the room.

After the fifth time someone spilled red wine, I rearranged my living room. The rug was a lost cause and the coffee table was donated. I got a new, darker rug. Grey like the rock, but so soft under my feet. I exchanged my table for smaller ones and put them to the sides of my couch. No more risk of sliding drinks or snacks. The rock was left where it was, in the center of the room, unmoving and heavy. I used it as a foot rest. It sent a chill up my spine every time but it was too convenient not to use. 

A year passed and the anniversary of what I lost passed like any other day. I stared at a photo of us off and on while the hours passed. We looked so young and happy. Full of life, which is a funny thing to say. You were already dying when this photo was taken. We just didn’t know.

The rock officially turned into a boulder that day. Monstrous in size and presence. I sat on it for a long while and just stared at the photo. 

It felt like I was on the cusp of something. Like I was on the edge of a cliff, wondering if someone was going to push me or if I was going to jump. The stone beneath me wasn’t warming today. I never could tell what days it would share my warmth or take it all away. It was cold and solid like a block of ice. Goosebumps trailed up my arms and down my legs. I heard your laughter in my ear and wanted to just let go. To jump off the ledge and to stop waiting for that final push. But I couldn’t. I wanted to, but I just couldn’t make myself move.  

For a second, for a whisper of a moment, I almost let myself grieve you. Your wit, your smile, your heart, I thought about all the little parts that made you whole. That made you alive. The memories were still vibrant in my mind, but I knew they would fade. There were already tiny pieces of you that I’d forgotten. Like the pattern of freckles on your skin. Did they cluster together like galaxies? Or did they look like the speckles on the boulder? I don’t remember. 

Logically, I knew that you were gone. You had been for a whole year. But I never let that knowledge bring me down. I didn’t let it slow me down. After all, that's what you told me to do. In the time before, when we knew your life wasn’t going to last. You told me to not be sad. To not wallow or wait for something that you can no longer give me. 

You told me to move on. To live, for the both of us. And I tried. I am trying. Every second of every day.

But how can I just let you go? Walk like you were never beside me? Talk like I wasn’t waiting for your response? Breath when I know that our lungs used to rise in the same rhythm? 

How can I smile or laugh or move through my living room when this boulder is taking up all the space? 

It’s not crushing me, not yet, but what if it continues to grow? What if it crashes through the walls of my living room, shatters the support beams and drops the roof down on my head? Or what if it becomes the only thing holding my house up? The only thing holding me up? What if this stone becomes my new foundation and all I know is its weight? 

It’s not always bad. Sometimes, I like seeing it. I like knowing that you're still such a large part of my life. But that doesn’t change the fact that there is a boulder in my living room and I can't figure out how to make it go away. How to stop it from growing and consuming my home. Consuming me. 

I know you were being kind. Telling me all those things. We want our loved ones to keep living when we’re gone. To be the same amazing person we knew and to be happy. No one wants to hurt the ones we love. We want them to live, no matter what. You wanted me to keep going, to never slow down or cry. And I did, I am, but then the rock grew into a boulder. 

Maybe… maybe you were wrong? Maybe I should be a little broken for a while. Because I can fix broken things, I’m fully confident in that. I can’t fix whatever this is. But I can’t move this boulder with my bare hands. However, if I break it down, little by little, I can carry it out of here. I can fill my pockets with pebbles and scatter them in the yard. 

Pebbles are easy to carry. I can handle the pebbles. 

I can’t handle this boulder. I don’t think I ever could.