Lightening The Load
I've been holding the phone in my hand for a few minutes. Finally, I push the call button and take a deep breath, letting it out in a rush.
I've spent a lot of time finding and reassembling a complete picture of myself. My conversations with my mother blur the joins a bit—like the tape on a reassembled photograph suddenly melted off, and the pieces float through the air. I lose my footing on what's real.
It's not her fault. She does the best she can. I know that. My older brother disappeared when I was 13, and we still don't know what happened. My mother fought hard to keep the tape on her own photograph, to put food on the table as a single mother and my brother's part-time income missing. She managed to save some money towards my college. In return, I want to offer her some comfort through my regular calls. The hard part is she still thinks he’s coming back. It’s like a wound she keeps ever-open.
"Hi, Birdie!"
"Hi, Mom."
I sit on the shower floor with the hot water flowing off my back. Memories of my older brother playing with me in the backyard when I was little come back to me. But he's gone, now. I miss him. It's just so big.
I feel like someone is doing heart surgery. Everything is open and raw. I stare at the shower wall, wishing I could process it, somehow. The grief has been weighing on me lately. When I lived with my mom, I numbed it, keeping up the facade that my brother may just come back—walk through the door as if he’d never left. Now that I’m living at college, that story just doesn’t hold up. I don’t think my brother is coming back.
If I lean into this and just feel the raw hurt, will I eventually get to the bottom of it? Will I someday feel better?
I think of my mom—how hard it was on her when I moved to the campus, losing another kid from her home. But I also know she wouldn't let me move back if I offered. She's firmly committed to helping her baby bird take wing.
I put my head down on my hands, feeling the weight of my grief. I feel like a sparrow who woke up from a nice dream mid-flight and realized her bones aren’t hollow, they’re filled with lead, and she can’t fly. She’s falling, tumbling, and hits the earth. Her bones shatter.
THAT. It feels so poignant and real. Maybe if I can feel all the way through that, I'll be free, and I can fly again. I just want to feel this all the way to the bottom and then feel better.
I can't seem to reinvoke the raw pain I was just feeling, now that I'm examining it. I feel frustrated and trapped. How long will I be like this?
I sigh and stand up and turn up the heat. I stand under the water, but it doesn't alleviate the tightness in my chest. When the water runs cold, I finally turn it off.
I walk from the bathroom towards my room. My roommate is painting. I'm lost in my sad thoughts.
"How are you doing?" she asks brightly.
I feel my heart disengage. The efficiency and numbness of my own defense mechanisms scares me. I toss my hair a bit with my fingers to help it air dry.
"I'm doing ok. What are you painting?"
My roommate is truly talented. And she's fortunate enough to have her parents pay her way through college.
She talks about her painting. Then changes the topic back to me. "Hey, your birthday is coming up."
My hand freezes in my hair for a moment before continuing the drying efforts. It's harder to project ok-ness when I'm the center of attention.
Anette continues, "Is there anything you want to do? Or something from me you'd like?"
"Hmmm. It's been a busy semester. I just want to relax a bit." I give her a smile. "Speaking of which, I've got to get off to the bar. My shift starts soon." I give her a tight hug. I take in her painting over her shoulder. It's a glorious forest scene. "This looks amazing. As always."
She squeezes my hand before our bodies lose contact, and my heart warms a little.
I lose myself in wiping down the bar, my thoughts pleasantly paused by the repetitive task.
I reach my arm out to the right, lean into the rebounding curve of the motion. I let my entire upper body be part of the process. The bar glistens slightly after the damp rag's passage, and I run a clean, dry cloth to pick up the moisture. I hang the rag and towel neatly to dry out.
A customer asks for another drink. I pull out a cocktail glass. I measure each part. I steadily agitate the shaker. I hear the ice rhythmically crash against the sides. I pour the contents into the glass. A thin, neat layer of foam blankets the drink. I let three drops of bitters land in the foam. I look at the drink for a short moment before I set it before the customer. I practice a deep breath, my palms flat on the bar top.
I lock up after my shift and notice more snow has fallen outside. I listen to the crunch of the snow under my feet as I walk. The stillness seeps inward a bit, and I feel calmer by the time I make it home.
I finish the final words of my speech. My classmates clap in encouragement and appreciation. I give a satisfied smile as I take my seat. I can hardly remember what I even said.
"Great job, Jamie," says my classmate Jayce.
"Thanks," I say as a genuine smile takes my face. These are rare, so I feel slightly awkward. Jayce talks to me often, and I have a feeling of not knowing what he wants from me.
I get home and Anette is eating lunch. I sit down with her.
"How'd the speech go?"
"People seemed to like it." I smile. "I'm glad it's over! Whatcha eating?"
She offers me half of her sandwich and insists I have it when I try to push it back.
"I'm going back home for my birthday.” I say. “It's always a bit… hard." Anette studies me. She knows my mom raised me on her own and that we struggle with finances. It's why I work so much. She doesn’t know about my brother, though. "I was wondering if you'd come with me." It's really hard for me to ask, and I lose eye contact.
"Of course!" Anette sounds truly excited. "I'd love to see where you grew up." Her voice turns more gentle and comforting. She puts her hand on my arm. "And hopefully I can make it a bit easier."
Mom has prepared some of the go-to favorites for dinner. She asks Anette about her art program. I talk about my recent project and share that my speech went well.
It's nice to be home, although a little haunting. I avoid looking down the hall towards the door of my brother's room.
The next day, before we head out after lunch, Anette is looking around in the living room. She stops at the fireplace mantle to look at the family photos.
"I didn't know you had a brother."
I walk up next to her. "I don't anymore."
I hear a sound of protest from my mother and feel a rush of shame flood me—I didn't realize she was within ear shot. She comes to join us.
"He disappeared six years ago," she says. She puts her hand on the photograph frame. "I keep the photo here in case he comes back. He'll know we never forgot him." She pauses for just a moment, but it's an entire world of pain and motherly love. She pulls herself back to the present. "Right, Birdie?" She strokes my cheek briefly with a nostalgic smile on her face, then heads back to the kitchen.
My mouth pulls into a frustrated and terse frown. "I didn't realize she was in the room."
Anette observes and nods and doesn't say anything else.
Anette is driving back. "Your mom seems really kind."
"Oh yeah, she is." I feel a rushed need to defend her. "She's always worked so hard to take care of me. To make ends meet." I feel a lot of frustration towards my mom and feel guilty for it. I look out the window.
"… but…" Anette prompts.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. I'm grateful Anette is astute enough to read my pent up frustration. Suddenly, I want to talk about this.
"But…" I sigh. "She just always talks about how my brother is coming back. It's just not realistic. And …" I pause, fighting back tears. "I hate hearing about him all the time." The flood gates break, and I do my best not to actually sob, to keep it to a polite-company cry.
"Awww, Jamie." Anette shoots me a glance full of compassion and concern.
"We reported him missing. We put out flyers, ads. We did search parties. I just need some closure." I feel the guilt swell up but say the truth anyways, "It would just be easier for me to imagine him dead. So I can grieve and move on." Some quiet tears continue to course down my cheeks.
"I can understand that." Anette says gently.
She pulls into the parking lot of a coffee shop along the side of the road. "Do you know if this place is any good?"
"It is, actually." I say, smiling a bit. I'm still fighting through tears.
Anette manages to lean over from the driver seat and give me a solid hug. "It's ok to feel that way, Jamie. It's ok to live your life and have some fun. I think your brother would probably want that for you."
"Yeah, he would." I say, wiping tears from my face and catching a few more that are still escaping.
"I'm going to go grab us lattes." Anette announces. "And grab you some toilet paper to blow your nose."
The school week goes by in a blur, but somehow, I get through it.
On Saturday, Anette presents me with two wrapped packages. One looks approximately canvas size. The second package is smaller, and I'm not sure what it is. Anette is brimming with excitement.
The larger is Anette’s forest painting. She’s painted a large, soaring bird that seems to screech across the sky. I can't pull my eyes away from it for a moment. Then I look at Anette. There are no words to thank her properly. It's ok, she seems to get it.
"It's perfect." I say and give her a hug. I squeeze my eyes to discourage a threatening wetness that wants to ruin my composure. I sniffle a little and smile at Anette as she pulls out of the hug.
"I hope you'll like this, too." She seems nervous, now.
I feel my brows furrow as I'm filled with curiosity. Anette is usually so self-assured.
Inside, I find two hefty, beeswax candles. They're a merry tone of orange. I sniff one. “These smell like heaven!”
Inside the package is also a small note. It reads:
"Meet me in the living room
at dusk. I'd like to catch up."
My brother's name is signed at the bottom, and my heart seems to flutter into a thousand pieces. My eyes question Anette, and my nervousness now matches hers. What is this? I think.
She takes a deep breath and visibly settles her body. "Ok, hear me out. I was recently reading a friend's blog. And she shared that she did this exercise where she invited an ancestor into the room with her. She wrote about their conversation and how healing it was. I know you said you want to find closure, to be able to move on. And… you said you think your brother would want you to enjoy your life, now."
She puts her hand on my arm. "What if you could invite your brother into the room and have a conversation with him?"
I feel still inside, almost unable to feel anything at all. But the wheels are turning.
"You don’t have to do it if you don't want to,” says Anette. “I can forward you the post if you want to read how it went for my friend."
As I think about talking to my brother, my body stiffens, as if bracing for impact. But I also feel something else inside me loosen. And that part of me feels relieved. "Ok. Send me the article. But I think I'd like to try it."
Anette hosts a ceremony in our living room to invite in my brother. She's prepared the space with pillows on the floor and several candles around the room.
After I sit down, Anette instructs me. "Let your eyes settle wherever they want to; just look at that thing for a while."
My eyes settle on the rug, which is a geometric and colorful and plush thing. I feel a sense of pleasure; I'm surprised at how this simple exercise has relaxed me. Then Anette has me orient to the space by looking around the room.
"Ok—you will be the one to invite your brother into the room with you. If you want to share what you are saying or what your brother is saying out loud, I can help be a guide. You can also talk to him privately."
I go ahead and ask my brother to join me. I'm surprised when I have a strong sense that his presence is here.
I'm filled with sorrow, and the question I've wondered for six years tumbles out: "Where did you go?"
I don't receive any answer, and my sense of my brother's essence fades a little. It's like he's confused. I'm afraid he'll leave.
Anette gently suggests: "Why don't you tell him about your life?"
"OK." I say out loud. Then, in my mind, I tell him about my studies, about Anette, about Jayce. And finally—I miss you.
I feel as if my brother is hugging me. "I miss you, too."
Then, words from my brother come all at once.
"You were always so brave, climbing trees in the backyard, going on adventures.
"You were such a spitfire little kid.
"I love you so much."
"Birdie, I'll always believe in you.
"It's ok to move on.
"I'm proud of you."
Tears course silently down my cheeks, and I hug myself. After a while, I look up at Anette and nod.
She says, "Thank you for visiting us today." I repeat in my head to my brother: Thank you.
My brother's presence is gone. Anette instructs me to look all around me again. I also turn my body to look behind me, on the right and on the left, and feel a sense of safety.
We take a few breaths together. Then sit.
I press my hands together in a motion of gratitude to Anette. "Thank you. I need to be with this a while. I'm going to go take a shower."
Anette gives me a wise smile and a slight nod. "Here, take a candle."
I'm reading a book on grief and healing. I cocoon my soft and cozy duvet around me as I read. The stumpy, cheerful flame from my birthday candles sit near me. They lend me courage.
Sometimes I have to put the book down and just sit.
Something important is happening.
It's hard work. It's not fun. It feels like a bone is being set.
The website label says “Light The World” with a cheery little flame as the company logo. I’ve browsed the candle selection a few times, now. My candles are getting shorter, and I want to order more. This candle business has been healing.
I look at the candle on the screen. It's so expensive! This is RIDICULOUS. I feel a wave of anxiety at spending so much money on something you burn into nonexistence. I sigh and favorite some of the most exciting scents.
I close my laptop and pack it up into my bag so I can make it to class on time.
I'm lying under my down comforter with my candle on the nightstand. I've supplemented it with several tea lights around the room.
I gaze at Anette's painting, and find pleasure in it. I imagine myself as the bird—strong and tenacious and flying. I've been finding islands of greater calm throughout my days.
I put on some of my favorite music and the tight weave around my heart feels a little looser.
I'm working at the bar and hear a customer enter. Jayce grabs a barstool and chats for a while. I realize he tends to swing by a lot.
I tell him about my trip home. I’m honest and tell him it’s been a struggle for me lately, that I miss my brother. Jayce is supportive and comforting, and I feel my world tilt a little.
Anette and I are having a few friends over this weekend, so I ask Jayce to come. He assures me he will, smiling broadly.
Back at home, I’m putting off writing my term paper. I keep looking back at that tab—lighttheworld.com. I add a few candles to my cart, then stare at the total price with a slight panic. I can't afford extras. Beeswax candles are not cheap.
I take a deep breath and query—how does this purchase feel in my body? It feels good.
I press PLACE ORDER.
I lift my birthday candle and inhale.
I feel a flicker of joy.