But it is.
My father came into my room this morning after I’d hit the snooze button on my alarm clock for the second time (I always hit it three times every morning) and said that he had something important to tell me. I was kind of confused, because I wasn’t completely awake yet, and I didn’t really understand exactly what was going on. But, as soon as he told me that Charlotte was dead, I was wide awake (even though it felt as if I was trapped inside a nightmare).
It was horrible. Horrible. I backed away from my dad into the corner of my bed (which sits against the wall, in the corner of my room), and I pulled my comforter up under my chin, and I just started to shake. And as I shook, I sobbed (and I sobbed and I sobbed and I sobbed).
My father tried to hug me, but I kicked him away. And, after another minute or so, he left my room and closed the door. Which was fine with me, because I wanted to be left alone. Forever.
I felt…well, I felt awful (which I know is way too ordinary a word to adequately describe how I truly felt that that moment, but I just don’t know what else to say).
My heart hadn’t ached so intensely since the day that my own mother died. It hurt so much that, before long, my sobs began to resemble the moans of a wounded beast. I had to clutch my fist to my gut in order to control the painful spasms that were erupting inside of me.
After a while, I curled up into a ball under my comforter; like a baby in its mother’s womb.
And, even though I was sobbing harder than I’d ever sobbed before, and even though the tears were pouring down my face, I could still clearly make out the floral pattern on the underside of my comforter.
It was bizarre. The flowers never grew blurry the way that images usually do when you look at them through a veil of tears. Instead, they stayed crystal clear (and bright, and sunny, and cheery). And, no matter how hard I cried, or how loud I moaned, my comforter’s colorful flowers just kept “smiling” back at me.
I’ll never forget it for as long as I live. There I was, crying for Charlotte (and for Elise, and for my mother, and for myself), and all I could think about was the fact that the flowers on my comforter wouldn’t go blurry.
Unfortunately, even this strange, momentary distraction couldn’t slow my tears. No matter how hard I tried to stop, I just kept crying and crying and crying. And, then, after all of the tears were finally drained from my body, I actually started to whimper for a little while (until my body’s well had had time to replenish itself), and then the tears started falling all over again.
This time, however, instead of a downpour, my tears fell in giant, silent, hot, salty drops that made their way slowly down my cheeks, into my mouth, and under my chin. They fell, and they fell, until they, too, were exhausted. And, then, I just sat there and sniffled for a while. And my nose ran – a lot. But, I didn’t have a tissue near me. So, I just kept wiping my nose with the back of my hand (it was gross, but I didn’t care), until I finally fell asleep.
I hadn’t been sleeping for very long when my father woke me up again. He was dressed in the same dark suit that he’d worn to my mother’s funeral three years earlier. And his eyes were red and bloodshot, as if he’d been crying too.
He told me that he was on his way to Charlotte’s funeral, and that I was welcome to come with him if I wanted, but that I didn’t have to go if I didn’t feel up to it (and that I could stay home from school today, regardless of my decision).
I didn’t go with him. I couldn’t.