Work Text:
It's a funny thing about grief.
I couldn't use our bathroom.
I could swear, swear that I see him in the corner of my eye.
Swear I could see him in the mirror sometimes.
I couldn't bear to clean anything that was his.
About two and a half years later, I called Michael.
To be honest, I found myself calling his (my) friends more often than I'd like to admit.
I called Richie after seeing my therapist, he sometimes called after seeing his.
Bill and I talked about the past, mainly. He told me the most about Stanley as a kid, what he was like.
I called Bev often times to congratulate her - once on her divorce, her new fashion line name change (MarshMcCall), to congratulate her on her engagement nearly a year later (I recall Richie telling me an exasperated "finally"), and another time after her beautiful wedding to congratulate her on the baby announcement.
Ben I called to talk about housing. I moved out of the house two months after Stan passed, but I just packed his things and took them with me. Most of it was still in boxes because I didn't want to see it.
Mike lived the closest to me, being in Florida. It was his idea to invite the rest to help out with cleaning my apartment.
My apartment was nice. I'd made it a sort of home, but it wasn't like our house and it wouldn't ever be. It felt empty most days.
It wasn't dirty but I was never going to be as tidy as he was. I fell into depressions often so my clothes ended up on the floor more often than I'd like them to.
I kept paintings of birds, boxes of puzzles around. It was something physical to see, physical to hold, something close enough but far enough removed nearly three years later that it didn't make me want to cry.
Sometimes students, my students, made me yearn to have known him as a kid like his friends had. His friends knew him a way I would never, and I knew him in a way they would never, so we felt things were somewhat even, but we all hurt.
Mike arrived to my apartment first around noon, having dropped off his stuff at a hotel.
Bev and Ben arrived next, having done similarly. Bev had just passed her first trimester, barely even showing. She gave me a tight hug.
Bill, Audra and their son, Georgie, who was nearly a year and a half old, arrived.
God, is that kid cuter than a box of puppies.
Richie arrived last, having canceled press events for the week. He told us his agent chewed him out, as usual when he canceled on short notice.
I ordered us all takeout for lunch - not Chinese as advised, Indian instead. None of them could stomach the stuff.
We all ate, and I explained everything that needed to be sorted through and thrown out or donated. The only things I touched were financial things he had from work.
Everything else was placed in bins when I moved.
We went through clothing first.
That was tough.
I found his proclaimed favorite sweater. I contemplated tossing it out. I wanted to part with it, but something in me refused to. Mike patted me on the shoulder and said "We'll keep it out, and if you still want it by the end of the week, then you'll keep it."
That was fair enough for me.
Socks and underwear were tossed.
Shirts, pants, jackets and shoes were donated.
"Is this supposed to feel wrong or right? I really can't figure it out." I muttered, clenching my fists.
"A mix of both." Ben responded back. I didn't even realize he had heard me.
We took a break and I made us drinks. (Non-alcoholic for Bev)
I took a sip from my wine.
"I'll probably say it a thousand times this week. But thank you all. Seriously."
They all started to try to say something but I cut them off.
"No. I mean it. You didn't need to do this, you didn't need to become my friends, you didn't need to travel to me for a week and take off from your jobs and help me grieve. You're all so selfless and I feel so awful for taking your time."
I had closed my eyes. I felt two sets of arms around me.
I opened my eyes and saw Mike on one side of me and Bev on the other.
I let it all out.
They seemed to join in on my sobbing, moving closer to me or onto the couch.
Ben had grabbed a box of tissues from the kitchen and walked back over, placing it in my lap.
I rubbed my eyes and sweet little Georgie was standing in front of me with his arms out.
Audra laughed, the tears welling up in her eyes spilling over her cheeks. “He does that with kids at daycare. You’re crying so he wants to give you a hug.”
I picked him up and cuddled him close.
God, we wanted kids.
He wanted kids.
I did too, but I think he wanted them more in a way.
Andy and Jenny.
It made me want to cry more.
I pressed a kiss to his forehead and placed him back on the ground. He waddled back to his mom.
"Alright, alright, I'm feeling claustrophobic, get off."
Richie rested his chin on my head and unwrapped his arms around me.
Bev leaned her head on my shoulder and Mike wrapped an arm around my waist.
“Fuckin’ bummer,” I heard Richie mutter to himself.
“Yeah.” I whispered back. "Fuckin' bummer."