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.

The hospice nurse said she’ll pass by the end of the day. 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.

I always wanted to do more for her, to show her a world outside of the Grove—but I never got out either.

Death waits for no one.

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

“The wrinklier the skin, the harder the life.”

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.

I know death is near because even her presence has dulled.

“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.

“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 always knew the only thing that would bring me home was death. I just didn’t know whose it would be.

Small towns don’t evolve. They don’t grow. They don’t change. They are what they’ve always been.

I’ve thought about how our street goes nowhere, almost like foreshadowing for the people who stuck around.

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.

He’s my family but he’s also a stranger. A familiar stranger, what an odd thing to be.

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.

If you can control your emotions, you can control anything.

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

Someone choosing to leave your life is a hard thing to live with. And I didn’t live with it well.

Her mind was truly a beautiful thing before the drugs ate away at it.

Bad habits don’t die.

Mom died right before my eyes and, though I know I’ll come to accept it, I don’t know if I’ll ever be all right again. Some things change you forever.

“What happened?” “Life happened.”

There are so many questions I want to ask him, but I know if I push too hard, he’ll shut down. That’s how he was as a kid, and most people don’t change. He overthinks, overanalyzes, and then keeps it all to himself, amassing clever little secrets. It’s probably why he’s done so well with his life.

I’m a little wobbly when I stand, and I immediately regret the alcohol I consumed. Typically, that’s reserved for the morning after, but sometimes 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.

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.

Her eyes skim over me, carefully noting each injury. 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.

You can’t trust people with an addiction because in many cases, like mine, their addiction is stronger than their word.

I tried to refuse the MRI, but I was in and out of it when they brought me in, and they must have decided it was necessary. Now, I’ll have pretty pictures of my brain, all for a whopping two thousand dollars. I should frame them like they’re valuable pieces of artwork.

She’s probably thinking she finally has her sister back. But I know that’s not entirely true. Only part of me is here.

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.

The house is dark, and I know they’ve come and taken Mom away. This place used to be a home. Now I don’t know what it is.

Inside the house, I turn on the lights. A bulb over the kitchen table flickers, signaling it’s close to burning out, and I could say the same for myself. Without Mom, it feels empty in here now.

They take it all in, just as I am. But it’s different for them. They haven’t lived in this house the last few months. They haven’t seen it transform from a home to a hospital to a memorial. They didn’t watch Mom die slowly and then suddenly, all at once. And I hate them for that.

We drink in silence, exchanging glances. It seems like we all have something we want to say. The house creaks and moans. I like to think it’s Mom, walking from room to room, making sure each one is in order like she used to do when we were young.

What I said was wrong but I’m also right, and she knows it. Sometimes right and wrong are interchangeable.

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. Mom, is that how you felt about me? —Nicole

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

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.

The landscape is green and vibrant, but soon the colors will change, and the leaves will fall, and those chirping birds will fly south. That’s life. It’s a cycle until it’s not anymore.

How do the living just keep living?

There’s nothing comforting about death.

when you give someone a gift, it’s their choice as to what they do with it.

you should always respect the wishes of the dead.”

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.