Four Weekends and a Funeral

by Ellie Palmer

“I don’t mind silence. I actually like it. I don’t like when other people feel uneasy with it.” Everything they’re not saying presses against my chest—it carries a weight—and if I let it go too long, the quiet turns on me. Judges me. It assigns blame. They wouldn’t be writhing in this interminable silence if you were a more interesting, captivating, exciting person, my insecurities whisper. So rather than face down that voice, I fill the space with my own chatter.

“Personal pan pizza,” I answer. “But I have to earn it through reading chapter books or no dice.” “See, that’s what’s wrong with the education system in this country.” “That’s what’s right with it, because now I associate reading with the taste of pepperoni and peppers. Win-win.”

“I imagine your every detail. Constantly. God, imagine the things I could accomplish if I could think about anything other than you: my favorite person.”

“Because I was asleep—in this walking, talking, waking coma. And now I’m awake. You woke me up.”

But you know what was so much more terrifying than owing a debt to the universe? Realizing it’s all random. And that’s the truth, there’s nothing to pay or prove. We’re all just living.”

“How am I supposed to know if any time is a good time for anything? Does anyone? You just have to make the choices that feel true to the life you want and hope like hell it will all work out.”