Home Is Where the Bodies Are

by Jeneva Rose

Nothing brings people together better than death. It’s like the sound of a high-pitched whistle for a dog that has strayed from its owner. When it happens, they always come. 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.

Addiction is exhausting for both the users and the ones they use.

She grew up dirt-poor, so her favorites are her favorites because she hasn’t experienced anything better. I always wanted to do more for her, to show her a world outside of the Grove—but I never got out either.

I know I’ll never hear her say it again—my name, the one she gave me. I wish I could reach out and grab it, stow it away in a safe place, like some sort of family heirloom. But it belongs to this moment. Like her, it’s not something I can keep forever.

Death waits for no one.

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

Mom would have had more time, but she’s a stubborn woman who visits the doctor about as often as one visits the DMV.

Her graying skin is like the bark of a tree, deep creases from a lifetime of stress and grief. She embraces them, though. 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. It’s reserved only for her. There is no replacement.

It’s almost here, and there are so many things I want to tell her. But I know it would take a lifetime to say them all, so I try to get out what I can.

“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.”

I let out a painful sob while her final words string together in my mind. Your father. He didn’t disappear. Don’t trust . . .

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.

We all had things going for us at one point, like locomotives on a set of tracks with no end in sight. But my train stopped, Nicole’s train derailed, and Michael’s . . . well, his went full steam ahead. And I can’t help but resent him for it.

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 that left us unprepared when he disappeared.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

Ten minutes later, she returned to the car carrying the typewriter and gifted it to me. I told her it was too much. She disagreed. I asked her how she could afford it. She told me not to worry about that. I told her I would pay her back. She smiled and said I could pay her back by writing a book. I promised her I would, but I never did, and years later, I sold the typewriter for drug money. She was as patient as a mother could be, but I wore it so thin, it became dust.

Day twenty-nine. I was one day away, just one day. I can hear my mother’s words. The last ones she ever said to me. Come back when you have a chip.

I glance in the rearview mirror at Nicole. She sits quietly in the back seat, writing in her notepad. The pen scratches at the paper. 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.

Growing up in a small town, there wasn’t much to do. So, we made our own entertainment—building forts, swimming in the creek, filming movies with our family camcorder, going for bike rides, and turning just about everything into a game.

Mom saved everything. She had lost so much in her life—her father, her sister, her mother, Dad—that she tried to hold on to anything and everything she could.

We sit in silence again, reminiscing about memories that feel like they happened both yesterday and more than a lifetime ago. It’s funny how time works.

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.

Final words make things final.

I open the Memories box and cough on a cloud of dust that swirls in the air. That’s how memories are—dormant dust waiting to be stirred up.

These little black rectangles hold worlds I once lived in. I so badly wish I could jump inside one of them and take up residence, return to a time when I was whole.

the box. My hand shakes, the tape hovering right in front of the VCR. Maybe Michael’s right, 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.

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

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.”

“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.

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. “You have your whole life to date, Nicole. Don’t rush growing up because you can’t go backward, only forward,” I say.

Shoes hit the wall with a thud as each one is kicked off. All of a sudden, my youngest child’s arms are wrapped around my waist. I lean down, breathing him in. It’s these moments I’ll cherish forever.

With Beth being a junior, there’s only one more last day of school with all three of them together. And eventually, there won’t be any more last school days. I know my children’s futures are bright, but I want to live in the now—even if it is dimly lit, and we’re barely scraping by. Because I know now is guaranteed, but tomorrow may never come.

Glimpsing at the past feels unnatural as though we’re not supposed to be able to. It’s like looking in a mirror, but I’m not the other person staring back. That version of myself no longer exists.

I think that people dislike something for one of two reasons: we truly dislike it, or we dislike it because it gives us an opportunity to value something else more. And when you don’t have much in life, there isn’t much you’re able to detest before you run out of things to, well, detest.