Until Next Time
Nonfiction by Haley Byers
Be Brave by Keiko Leung
CW : Death of a sibling, Mentions of Sickness and Cancer
My head pounds from the annoyances of work causing a kaleidoscope of colours to flash through my vision. The raging toll of driving throughout New Brunswick everyday is finally catching up to me. Hopefully, the reward will be worth it. Speeding through the old-timey streets of downtown Fredericton, my legs are TV static, and I’m impatient. But visiting him feels like the real reward.
The bright sun blinds me through the windshield as I pull into the graveyard. An explosion of dirt made it difficult to see as I followed the thin, unpaved pathway towards my brother’s resting place. My car shifts with the absorption of every small rock and snapped twigs scatter the ground, broken by past visitors. Sun-damaged memorials covered in fluffy moss and decorated with flowers from loved ones, pass my window slowly as if they were on a conveyor belt. This place relaxes my worries. It feels like the world stops just for me in these moments. My anxiety-filled life feels like an overreaction compared to those who lie below the surface. In spite of that, I’m able to catch my breath, bathe in the sun and enjoy whatever alone time I have left before dark.
I stepped out into the calm afternoon; white and yellow dandelions painted the acres of grass before me. The whistles of blue jays capture my attention as I waste no time walking towards his headstone. Bees hum and the presence of butterflies and squirrels add to the tranquillity of the nearly empty burial grounds. My shoes caress the emerald blades leaving lasting markers. My past footprints acting as footnotes to the new ones, writing pages of history of my visitations. Why couldn’t nature always feel like this?
The rushing sound of the Saint John River synchronizes with my steps as if it were welcoming me back. I squinted hard, trying to find its end, but the deep blue went on forever. It looked picturesque. A view my mother wanted him to have even if he can’t experience it physically. I placed my hand upon the cold marble, a habit that stuck over the years and brush off stray leaves. The weeds surrounding the memorial were brown and overgrown and a single Sidney Crosby figurine sat still, like it had for the past 18 years. My visits have always felt like the relief a hockey player feels when the last buzzer sounds and victory is secured. My relief is far from a victory.
Ryan was my best friend. I had the privilege of knowing him for the first six years of my life but all that was brutally ripped away. Cancer took him from me. Everything I tried cherishing over the years has faded into a nothingness that I have yet to find my way out of. I miss someone I hardly knew. I miss someone whose picture sits on my nightstand, protecting me while I sleep. I long for someone who’s never coming back. Relief can’t be classified as a victory if I can’t remember the way he talks. I relish in what could’ve been and how different life would be if he stuck around. I’m pissed at the world for taking him; for making him sick. For not saving him. For many years, I’ve wanted to scream to the heavens and ask, why him? Blame someone or something. But that wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t be fair to myself to hold onto grief so tightly. Would he want that? Settling into my reality meant forgiving the circumstances but never forgetting him.
Minutes turned to hours as I sit in the dirt, telling him the tales of my life. Laughing at my stupid mistakes and reminiscing about our games of road hockey and wrestling matches that I never backed down from. Would he enjoy how much I talk? A car or two pass by distracting me from my monologue. I’m not alone. Daughters visiting their mothers and mothers visiting their daughters. I wonder how much they visit. We share a nod and continue down our separate life paths.
I walk aimlessly through the field of stone, pondering life stories and experiences of the deceased. Old and young alike lie ahead of me, their stones reflecting their memory. Freshly polished marble glistens in the sun for some, while others stare at me, sporting years of neglect and water-damage. I made it my mission to see them all. Visit those who don’t have anyone left and sit with them like I’ve known them my whole life. Remembering the forgotten; I read their obituaries, learning about the people that have graced this town. That’s something I could only hope for when my time comes.
The journey back to the car feels long but well worth it. I looped the grounds twice, enjoying my own company and waiting for feelings of satisfaction. Each hour passes steadily, like the tick of a metronome. The feeling of peace wraps me in a safe blanket of warmth. That’s my cue. It’s time to go. My shoulders and thighs bare burning rashes and I kick stray pebbles in front of me, missing them half the time. Being alone never felt so satisfying. But I wasn’t alone. At least not on the inside. I feel whole.
As his name appears in the distance, I dread saying goodbye. It’s not much of a goodbye as this place has become my getaway. A form of therapy. It’s slowly but surely healing the little girl who got left for months, blissfully unaware of when her brother died. Locking eyes with the engraved picture of him, his dirty blonde hair hidden by his signature NHL hat as he sits amongst the tall trees of the woods near our house. A twinge of sadness fills my chest. My parents haven’t visited in years. I know they miss him. I’ve read the tear-covered pages of journals buried in the basement. The only evidence of my father's emotions. He chose to be strong for his little girl, but deep down, I know he’s hurting. My mother doesn’t go a day without thinking of him. Her first born. She kisses all her children’s pictures before work but lingers on his a little extra. I know she’s hurting. My parents have lost way more than I have. I can’t be mad at them. It’s their first time living too and there’s no handbook on how to cope when your child dies. Nonetheless, I beg my mother to come with me, to leave flowers on his freshly cleaned stone. She agrees, but beggars can’t be choosers. My excitement dies when it’s clear that she forgot. I know he’s not forgotten, and life is busy, but when will it be more than just me? No one cares more than a little sister who lost her big brother. I’m helpless in that aspect. I kiss the tips of my fingers, just like my mom, and place them on the top of his memory all while promising to bring them soon.
Lowering myself into my hatchback, I sat silent. If only I could wander here until my feet give out. Life feels so simple here. Finally gathering the courage to turn the car on, the clock signalled the start of rush hour. Existing to simply exist without the burden of real-life problems and interruptions is something I will always cherish. But life doesn’t stop for anyone, and I need to return to my own reality. Checking my mirrors, I give one last weak wave before starting towards the exit.
The bright afternoon, now bearing the darkness of daylight savings and backed up traffic floods the streets. Reality didn’t have to settle in that quick. Waiting to turn right, I scroll through massive playlists, hunting for a song that encapsulates my mood. The options vary by visit. The solemn chords feel like satin on skin. I remember your bare feet down the hallway. Ronan by Taylor Swift echoes from the speakers. A song that mirrors his life. A song about another little boy, younger than he, who also lost his battle to cancer. I remember your blue eyes looking into mine. I see him in my little sister's crystal-blue eyes. They’re identical. The depths of greens and blues crash down like waves. She holds a piece of him within her. He sent her. I feel tears well up in my eyes as I grip the steering wheel tight, finally able to make that right turn as I whisper one last, until next time.
Haley Byers (she/her) is a lover of all things literary. As a student in the Creative and Professional Writing program at Humber Polytechnic, this love has only grown. Creative nonfiction is her focus but she has experience writing fiction, article/editorial work, poetry as well as play writing. Byers’ main goal is to create a safe space for anyone who was too young to understand their trauma and create the literature she never hade growing up. When she is not writing, you can find Haley rewatching Twilight, reading her favourite books or playing Dress to Impress with her friends.