By Leili Najmabadi
The heaviness of my eyes begins to mirror the subtle tumblings of walls within me, the ones that were holding up a hidden well of tears. Even before the tears there were tearings. Before the breaking there were bearings. Now it’s mid-August and the letting go gets ugly. I keep my mouth shut more. I fall into bed and hug my knees close. I have a feeling this sort of unraveling will leave me with more of a mess than I started with, like yarn that tangles and knots from one loose thread. Tomorrow I will muster the strength not to lift my suitcase into the overhead of an Amtrak train, but to ask someone else to do so. Please see it in my face that I am tired and I need you, perfect stranger. The weekend will call for a friend’s birthday festivities over sushi, in wine bars, on a makeshift bed on a friend’s couch. I’ve been told to bring a nice dress, but I’ve never been taught how to make my face sparkle.
It has not even been five months, and the weight of each one of them has almost crushed me. If only everyone could turn their insides out, I’m sure this would be a softer place to land than smiles with teeth and bony arms. I fear that with a snap my survival could collapse, like a missed train. I fear that the only failure anyone is worried about for me is whether or not I have a smooth talk track for the presentation tomorrow.
Mom and I are reading the same grief book on “signs,” because it fills us with hope and helps us keep our eyes open with a youthfulness that is not as familiar with death. We are sitting in the grass by Dad’s resting place when she sees the sun reflecting off a faraway flower decoration in front of someone else’s grave. She points, “Do you see that shiny thing?” With my nod, Dad confirms that he was listening when she asked to send a shiny object. If this is true, I give myself time to think of an object not too cliché and not too ordinary as I await my turn.
Two weeks later I come to the conclusion that my sign will be a penny. Subtle, unassuming, only noticed on its own account. Another week passes and no sign. I linger at cashiers, gaze across sidewalks, and still nothing. Feeling foolish, I report my failed quest back to Mom, needing some magical thinking to hold on to.
It’s 9pm and in the downpour of rain and thunder, lightning has only struck once. So I tell myself it must be safe to walk home from the yoga studio. I say something about spirituality to ease the worried look on my friend’s face as we part ways. The water streaks down my face in a consistent tempo that makes me trust it the same way savasana washes over me in the quiet of the candle-lit studio. I am safe here from the storm and I am safe even in the storm. My body is protected here. Nothing bad is coming this way. I would be foolish to ever fear these droplets after a year like
mine, and in no other year would finding a penny more golden than brown in the puddled water mean what it did.
You are at the end of every storm. You are the penny peeking through. You are the wetness on my cheeks until I get to you.