The last time we did this...

A commentary on always needing forgiveness

Silence hung in the place where noise was just crucified. The conversation stunted, like a choked plant in the scorching sun. Frye dabbed at her eyes lazily—undeserving of the comfort that came with a face void of tears.

There were six people around the table. Eight, if you counted the ghosts glaring at Frye as she duck taped her heart to her chest. Fifteen minutes became thirty, sitting in death. Stewing with the bones and the tears from her past. Boiling. Boiling.

“I’m sorry.” she said, ridding herself of the lump in her throat. Babysitting the sob that threatened to crash through her like a sky cut by lightning.

“I know that’s not enough. I know I’ll have to prove it. I know it might be slow and painful and you all might treat me differently. I know. I deserve it. I’ll make peace with it.”

The faucet was running now and she couldn’t stop the flow. The water was murky with regret and salty with tears. She would be working on her plumbing for the rest of her life with bated breaths. She had already prepared to leave here empty handed but bare shouldered. She would make the water drinkable again. She would force it to run clear.

Her mouth opened and closed then repeated. Her hands spun like a child in a dance. Pieces of napkin fluttered to the floor like fairy wings. All the comforts of her childhood dying one by one. Piece by piece. She’d clean the floor if all went well. She’d clean it if it didn’t. She’d sweep around them. Make a home in her own chest. Light a candle. Smile on the walk to her car. Smile in general.

“That was a lot.” The youngest of the group said.

Her face was soft like someone smoothed it out with their palms slathered in lotion. She didn’t frown—more like a space waiting for a grin. Neutral mouth. It could go either way.

“Yeah. A lot.” Said the eldest. Mouth a flat line and eyes a well of memories Frye kept trying to forget. If she kept looking she’d get lost and never come back. She glanced at her shoes once before picking a spot on the wall directly behind the eldest.

“It’s—complicated.” Fryes dad’s hands were shivering over his face. It wasn’t cold. He ran his hands down, wiping off any trace of something Frye could hope for. He looked to his wife. Frye didn’t follow his gaze. There are some things a mortal can’t do. Fryes mortality was sky high. She desired nothing but a respite from the discomfort—but this is what growing was. Pain. If she didn’t endure it she’d never shoot up any taller than what she’d always been. A squat thing, something people tripped over. Something always low to the ground.

“You hurt us a lot.” Dad’s wife said.

Frye winced and hoped it didn’t show. There was no way she earned that privilege.

“I know.”

She didn’t have anymore excuses. She’d been packed to the brim with them for years. That’s why she was so damn heavy all the time. Frye wanted to be light. She wanted to know what it was like to move with the ease of breathing unhindered. Things in her past were complicated at best—horrendous at worst. She was tired of sitting up at night, wanting to text her siblings but being too afraid to. She was tired of being angry. Tired of holding pain. She wondered if they were tired of it too, though their lives went on fine. Hers had stopped—skidded to a halt like someone wouldn’t let her pass go and collect $200 before she claimed this abandoned property. Before she made a home in the haunted house.

“Can we think about it?” Her mom asked. Her dads wife. Her mother for all intents and purposes.

Frye nodded eagerly, but not too much. Just enough to show that she was willing to give them space.

---

The coffee pot dripped languidly like it had smoked a pound of weed and was taking its sweet time. Enjoying the high. Frye’s frother sounded like it was in a hurry. Late for work. The conflict made Frye laugh.

She poured the frothed milk slowly and worked on her latte art. Flickflickflickflickflick! UUUPPPPPP. DOOWWWNNNNN.

She looked at the rosetta design with a heart. It was a little wonky, but it reminded her of herself. Lopsided. Crooked. Beautiful. The bold flavor of the coffee washed away the taste of minty paste. Froth dotted her nose. She laughed and stretched her tongue far past her lips. Up to the sky, towards her dotted nose and swiped at the bulb just before the froth dot. She couldn’t reach. She laughed and used her sleeve.

It’d been five days since meeting with her family. She had given them space. Time. She’d give them more. They’d given her plenty. She held her heart tight—reminding herself that the thing she had to do was done. Everything was with them now. If all else failed, she’d grow comfortable with being unweighted and alone. Being heavy and alone was a wretched combination. If you’re alone in a lake and unweighted you can float. It’s almost pleasant. Now, what if someone added rocks to your chest? Yeah. Floating had to be better than drowning.

---

Frye bandaged her pinky, pointer, and middle finger. The raw stubs burned as she dabbed at them with cuticle oil. Purpleish bruises formed crescent moons beneath her eyes. Her hair wasn’t as curly as it could’ve been. She’d run out of shampoo. She’d run out of hope. She was very tired.

Silence was a good indicator of the room. She could read. She wasn’t stupid. Even the words that weren’t said were said. She’d released the hope like a child releasing a balloon.

Go to a better place. It was nice knowing you. Float away. Be free.

---

She swirled the blues with the greens and got something like teal. It reminded her of a mermaids tail—translucent in the emerald surf. She poured linseed oil in her mixture and swirled it around again. Like a fancy man twirling his wine glass. Each brushstroke was a sip. She was drunk on her own imagination.

Painting was solace. A place where she could be comely. No more a mess. No more a person who had lost her family in one swoop. One singular brush stroke. A painted over picture. An erased portion of time. A forgotten memoir at the back of someone’s attic.

She moved to Boston three months ago. She felt tugged to someplace where she could start fresh. She didn’t want to stay in the same city. She didn’t want to run into anyway who used to know her. She wasn’t the same anymore. She’d never be again.

Music blared through the speakers she also covered in paint. Her apartment looked like a scene out of an art exhibit. She’d painted every wall and kissed her security deposit goodbye. She covered the walls with open fields of poppies, lakes glimmering in the sunlight, gold leafed trees, and a black wall made of chalkboard paint. Her friends scrawled poems, drew pictures, and left notes. She looked at the messages left from last nights gathering. Looked forward to the delivery guy bringing the wine for tonight’s. Her phone dinged a million times.

On the way and bringing charcuterie boards.

Coming in hot. Open the door.

Put the paints away FRYES!

A million ways to feel loved.

She cleaned up her paints and turned up the music. She reached for her phone. It dinged. It dinged.

Unknown: We forgive you. Give us a call.

The faucet broke but the water ran clear. The sediment that had settled in was finally gone. The last bits of something unfinished were eroding. Frye dialed the phone in her home. No longer haunted. No more ghosts.