Home Is Where the Bodies Are

by Jeneva Rose

Death reminds us that life isn’t infinite and that one day, our time will come too.

It’s odd. Some people never see it coming, others have a countdown, and I don’t know which is worse.

her favorites are her favorites because she hasn’t experienced anything better.

Death waits for no one.

She told me flowers reminded her of life—beautiful, delicate, and short-lived.

she’s a stubborn woman who visits the doctor about as often as one visits the DMV.

She always has, proudly saying, “The wrinklier the skin, the harder the life.” It’s a badge of honor for her, evidence of her hardships.

There’s not many things you can count on in life, but that . . . is one thing you can count on. It will rise and it will fall—no matter what. Don’t matter if you’re sick or sad. Don’t matter if there is war or there is peace. Don’t matter if you see it or you don’t. That sun. You can count on it.

Even in her dying days, she’s still trying to teach me, to guide me, to show her love her way—through lessons and words of wisdom.

“Hi, Mom,” I say. I’m trying to say Mom as many times as I possibly can because I know I’ll never call another person that again.

“I love you, Mom. Thank you for having me, for raising me, for loving me, for being like the sun . . . the one thing I could always count on.”

It’s true what they say about the lights going out when a person passes.

When you shine brighter than the sun, it’s hard for others to look at you, so you have two choices: look and be blinded with resentment or look away.

I guess you can only grow so much when you’re stuck in the same place—like a house plant that’s never been repotted.

Dad raised us to be strong and stoic. I remember his words, If you can control your emotions, you can control anything. He made it seem like it was some sort of superpower. But really it was just a terrible coping mechanism—one

But sometimes it’s the bad things in life that make us feel the most alive.

It’s better to be unaware of what you’re missing out on, those things you’ll never have access to and how the one percent lives—especially when you know it’d only be temporary.

Nahh. I wanna know.

I’m going crazy. I’ve actually never understood that saying. Going crazy . . . because crazy isn’t a place you go, it comes right to you.

I think that as humans we can only carry so much death with us.

there is no gap between an action and a regret.

Money changes people the same way death does. If you don’t know how to manage every aspect of it, it’ll bring out the worst in you.

It’s funny how memory works. Our brain decides what’s most important and retains it—the rest, it just lets go.

Song lyrics we remember for years, decades even. Are they important? Most likely not. But they’re tied to salient moments.

After all, time isn’t the only thing that ages us.

When you chase all the wrong things, you’re bound to end up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It hurts to inhale deeply, like I’m only sucking in enough air to survive, not enough to thrive. But I’ve felt that way about life for a long time. The doctor told me I was lucky my ribs weren’t broken. I suppose he and I have different definitions of the word lucky.

It’s how she always looks at me now, like a claims adjuster appraising the damage and deciding whether or not I’m salvageable.

I’ve never been fond of eye contact. It feels too intimate. It’s a way to establish trust—but no one should trust me. I don’t even trust myself.

I’m not sure why I even started it in the first place. I know the answer. But sometimes we question the things we already know.

She’s always been that way. Rather than express how she’s feeling outwardly, she writes it down, spinning poems and pithy lines out of her pain.

Last week, I wrote a short story. It started out strong, lost its way in the middle, and never got back on track. The ending fell flat, the potential from the strong beginning faded, and it seemed unsalvageable. I rearranged words, deleted, added, but no matter what—it just wasn’t what I intended it to be. I wanted more for it, but some things just can’t be polished, so I threw it away.

My parents said I was cursed with an active imagination because I could close my eyes and imagine the worst possible thing happening. Maybe my mind wasn’t overly active. Maybe it was preparing me for the broken life I’d live.

As we age, we shed layers of ourselves, disintegrating like any other organic material, but some of us just break down faster than others.

It’s hard to see someone when the memory of them is stronger than the person standing directly in front of you.

He closes the door behind him, leaving me to fend off the monsters on my own. But they’re not under the bed anymore. They’re in me.

That’s how memories are—dormant dust waiting to be stirred up.

it’s depressing to revisit the past and won’t do any of us any good. It can’t change anything. Or maybe it’s just what we need. A new perspective. Closure, as they say, to a life we’ll never live again.

My kids hate it, always groaning at me to put away the camcorder, to stop taking photos. But one day they’ll appreciate the time and effort I put into preserving our family memories. Whatever I don’t capture through video and photos, I write about in journals, key points of each day that I cherish and even those I don’t—it’s important to remember both the good and the bad because together they keep us grateful and grounded.

I’ve always loved flowers. There’s something special about their existence. They’re how we greet the ones we love and say goodbye to the ones we’ve lost.

There are some things we can’t say out loud, and it’s just easier to write them down.

I’ve told her a hundred times she’s going to blow her eardrums out, but it falls on deaf ears—perhaps my warning is already too late.

Her personality has always been all or nothing, which worries me sometimes. Zero or a hundred makes the middle, where everyday life exists, feel like a slump.

“One day, you’re gonna regret wishing your life away.”

there’s a fine line between keeping your children grounded and killing their dreams,

“How are you going to be a writer if you don’t want anyone to hear your words?”

“You don’t need to be first, honey,” I say, staring directly at her. I want my daughter to really hear me, to remember these words one day when she’s stopped believing in herself. That day will come. It comes for all of us. And I want her to have the tools to get past that day and any other day like it.

“The first to stand in your way. Other people are going to tell you no. They’re going to tell you that you can’t do something, you’re not good enough, you’re not worthy. You don’t need to do that. Don’t add to the noise. Because that’s all it is . . . noise. You be a voice, a voice for yourself.”

At fifteen, she sees me mostly as a buzzkill. I’m her drill instructor, her boss, an impediment to freedom, and a barrier to the life she wants to live. Everything cool, I am the opposite. This dynamic is a rite of passage for parents of teenagers. One day, she’ll grow out of it. When that day comes, I might even miss her sass.

“Beth, be nice. Nicole, you know the rules. No dating until you’re sixteen.”

I’ve had this same conversation with her a dozen times, but she’s too keen on growing up. I wish she’d learn to slow down. Because one day, she’ll be my age, wishing for it back.