still stuck living the emotions of suffering events that haven't actually occurred.
And yet they have. Perhaps not exactly as my dream portrayed, but close enough, with a slightly different cast.
Cam.
My mind races, the guestroom closet beckoning me. Holy shit , I have a piece of Cam left. Just sitting there, waiting. I find myself suddenly unable to follow my own reasoning from earlier, and every second I don't open that box, it's like I'm just willingly giving him up.
I throw off my comforter and scurry across the hall. My mother's room is at the end of the hall, and though she used to sleep like the dead, she's learned to sleep lighter. She's always half listening for one of my nightmares, and though I always try to be quiet once I awaken, she still gets woken up a few times a week.
The shelf is higher than I can reach with the box pushed all the way back like it is. I have to drag an ottoman over to get a good handle on it.
It isn't big, or especially heavy—maybe just big enough for a microwave or small appliance—and I set it on the full size guest bed that's never been used. I can't even imagine who it would be for.
I stare at the lid a long time. I'm not sure if I'm hesitating out of uncertainty, or if I'm trying to make the moment last, to savor getting some small piece of Cam back.
My name is written on the top, but it isn't taped shut. The tabs are folded in like a four sided accordion so the box stays closed, though, and I sincerely believe it hasn't been opened since Michelle packed it.
I brush my thumb under the seam between two tabs, and pull out the first one. The rest follow quickly, and my eyes land on the item neatly folded on top. Cam's varsity tee shirt. Linton Tornadoes number twenty two. I run my fingers over the fabric, and pull the shirt out of the box, lifting the material to my nose.
I breathe deeply, and I don't know if the faint scent of Cam is really there or just imagined, but I smell it all the same.
I sigh. It's not likely the scent is actually him since I was the last person to wear it. The day he died. He slipped it on me after cleaning the wound from Robin's house key the night before, and I was still wearing it at the hospital the next morning.
I let the material absorb my tears. I let them flow freely. I miss my best friend. I loved him. Love him. And it's not fair that he's not here—that because of my decisions with Robin, Cam had to die.
"I miss you," I breathe into the fabric. I hug the material to my chest, and let the sleeve dangle over my shoulder as I reach for the next item in the box.
It's a small photo album from about three years ago. Our parents took countless photos of us when we were kids, but as we got older, most of our photo sharing was done online. But when we were in ninth grade, we took a photography elective and at the end we made this album.
I recall the photos with utter clarity before I even open it. Photographs of the sky, of the school grounds. But mostly we took pictures of each other, and ourselves—making ridiculous faces, or with wide smiles, or rolling our eyes at one another. It's a bittersweet feeling, these memories. Because although it hurts that Cam's not here to look at it with me, I love remembering that time.
We had so much fun in that class. Often we were directed to pair off, which was obviously always with each other, and go photograph certain assignments. I'd always loved our time just the two of us.
It'd been like that when we were kids, but during middle school we became more social. Well Cam did, and so I followed. There were always times when we'd hang out with Chip, Nick, and Perry, but by then the boys and girls had been hanging out together on Friday nights. And then that became progressively more frequent. I still saw Cam plenty, but there were definitely a lot more people around a lot of the time. So that photography class was something of a reprieve for me—a set time where I was certain to get my best friend all
And yet they have. Perhaps not exactly as my dream portrayed, but close enough, with a slightly different cast.
Cam.
My mind races, the guestroom closet beckoning me. Holy shit , I have a piece of Cam left. Just sitting there, waiting. I find myself suddenly unable to follow my own reasoning from earlier, and every second I don't open that box, it's like I'm just willingly giving him up.
I throw off my comforter and scurry across the hall. My mother's room is at the end of the hall, and though she used to sleep like the dead, she's learned to sleep lighter. She's always half listening for one of my nightmares, and though I always try to be quiet once I awaken, she still gets woken up a few times a week.
The shelf is higher than I can reach with the box pushed all the way back like it is. I have to drag an ottoman over to get a good handle on it.
It isn't big, or especially heavy—maybe just big enough for a microwave or small appliance—and I set it on the full size guest bed that's never been used. I can't even imagine who it would be for.
I stare at the lid a long time. I'm not sure if I'm hesitating out of uncertainty, or if I'm trying to make the moment last, to savor getting some small piece of Cam back.
My name is written on the top, but it isn't taped shut. The tabs are folded in like a four sided accordion so the box stays closed, though, and I sincerely believe it hasn't been opened since Michelle packed it.
I brush my thumb under the seam between two tabs, and pull out the first one. The rest follow quickly, and my eyes land on the item neatly folded on top. Cam's varsity tee shirt. Linton Tornadoes number twenty two. I run my fingers over the fabric, and pull the shirt out of the box, lifting the material to my nose.
I breathe deeply, and I don't know if the faint scent of Cam is really there or just imagined, but I smell it all the same.
I sigh. It's not likely the scent is actually him since I was the last person to wear it. The day he died. He slipped it on me after cleaning the wound from Robin's house key the night before, and I was still wearing it at the hospital the next morning.
I let the material absorb my tears. I let them flow freely. I miss my best friend. I loved him. Love him. And it's not fair that he's not here—that because of my decisions with Robin, Cam had to die.
"I miss you," I breathe into the fabric. I hug the material to my chest, and let the sleeve dangle over my shoulder as I reach for the next item in the box.
It's a small photo album from about three years ago. Our parents took countless photos of us when we were kids, but as we got older, most of our photo sharing was done online. But when we were in ninth grade, we took a photography elective and at the end we made this album.
I recall the photos with utter clarity before I even open it. Photographs of the sky, of the school grounds. But mostly we took pictures of each other, and ourselves—making ridiculous faces, or with wide smiles, or rolling our eyes at one another. It's a bittersweet feeling, these memories. Because although it hurts that Cam's not here to look at it with me, I love remembering that time.
We had so much fun in that class. Often we were directed to pair off, which was obviously always with each other, and go photograph certain assignments. I'd always loved our time just the two of us.
It'd been like that when we were kids, but during middle school we became more social. Well Cam did, and so I followed. There were always times when we'd hang out with Chip, Nick, and Perry, but by then the boys and girls had been hanging out together on Friday nights. And then that became progressively more frequent. I still saw Cam plenty, but there were definitely a lot more people around a lot of the time. So that photography class was something of a reprieve for me—a set time where I was certain to get my best friend all
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